


we are ugly but we have the music

by warriorqueenclarke



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Musicians, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Humor, rating may change tags may be added you know the drill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-06-08 08:25:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15239352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warriorqueenclarke/pseuds/warriorqueenclarke
Summary: Clarke is tasked with writing a memoir about notoriously private rock 'n' roll prodigy, Bellamy Blake. By all appearances, he already hates her guts, but it's not like she's exactly thrilled with the match, either.





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a prologue hence the short ass word count ! i'm not sure when i'll be updating bc i have like eight fics up in the air atm but i just had this compulsion to get this out there ? random. also i think ill do a playlist to accompany this at some point. we'll see.

**MARCH 2018 / LOS ANGELES**

“No,” Clarke says flatly. “There is no fucking way.”

“Clarke,” Kane says.

“I’m not doing it.”

“You don’t really have a choice.”

“Then fire me!”

“Clarke, this is a huge opportunity,” Kane says. “And quite frankly, nobody else is cut out for this job. It has to be you.”

“Nobody else is cut out for this job because _this job is impossible_ ,” Clarke says. “Bellamy Blake doesn’t even do interviews with _Rolling Stone_. He has never spoken more than two words to any interviewer.”

“That’s not strictly true,” Monty pipes up from behind Kane. She’s not entirely sure why he’s here, other than to be a witness in case Clarke tries to physically harm Kane, which is probably something she would do, so - kind of a smart move. “There was that time he said ‘fuck off, _you fucking asshole_ ’. Which is five words.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Has Bellamy even agreed to this?”

“Not yet,” Kane admits. “He wanted to meet you first.”

“Oh, god,” Clarke groans. “Kane, 26 is too young to die. You can’t do this to me.”

“Maybe this book will make you really famous, and then you can die at 27 like all the best tragic celebrities do,” Monty says.

“Thanks, Monty,” Clarke says.

“Monty’s right, this could do amazing things for your career, Clarke,” Kane says, even though Clarke’s pretty sure that’s not really what Monty was saying. “You’ll spend two months with him, three tops, you’ll get to travel around the world, make connections, and at the end of it, you’ll write a book that’ll make you so much money you’ll never have to work again.”

“I don’t care about money or connections, and I like working,” Clarke says. “So, problem solved, guess you’ll have to find someone else.”

“Listen. Just meet him for coffee, have a bit of a chat, see how it goes.”

“Marcus,” Clarke says (yeah, she’s pulling out the big guns), forcing a pleading, helpless look onto her face. “Please don’t make me do this.”

He actually looks like he’s considering her for a moment, but -

“Think about the book sale projections,” Monty says, nudging Kane.

Kane breathes in, and then nods. “Clarke, you’re doing this.”

He leaves her standing there, mouth wide open.

“What the fuck, Monty?” Clarke exclaims. “You just threw me under the fucking bus!”

“Sorry,” Monty says, looking sheepish. “We have a bet going on how long it’ll take for you and Bellamy to kill each other.”

“How long did you bet on?”

“Half an hour,” he says. “Give or take a few minutes.”

“You have too much faith in my self-control,” Clarke mutters.

“Raven said ten seconds,” Monty says.

“Smart woman.”

~ ~ ~

As it turns out, Bellamy isn’t in town at present, so Kane organises a Skype call between the three of them, and of course since Bellamy is on the other side of the world in Australia, and _he’s_ the celebrity, Kane and Clarke are the ones who have to work around his schedule and the time difference.

So, that’s why Clarke is awake and sculling coffee at 1.45am on a Thursday morning, wearing a crisp long-sleeve button-up and not much else, because she may be a professional but she is not putting on suit pants for a sit-down Skype call with a man Pitchfork once called _‘the Leonardo da Vinci of Douchebaggery_.

Technical difficulties arise and persist, as they always seem to with conference calls, so the call ends up officially starting at 2:13, when Bellamy Blake’s face flickers onto screen, handsome and dishevelled as ever.

“Mr Blake! It’s an honour to meet you,” Kane says. “How are you finding Sydney?”

“Fine,” Bellamy says, voice low and growly. Clarke fidgets with the pen and paper she has ready at hand. “Cold.”

There’s a pause, as if Kane’s waiting for him to say something else - Clarke knows better, having done extensive research over the past few days and witnessed his steadfast refusal to communicate in anything other than clipped sentences and one-word answers. It’s even more infuriating to observe in person. Or as close to in-person as she’s ever been, anyway.

“Well,” Kane says, “I’m Marcus Kane, and our other call-member is Clarke Griffin.”

“Nice to meet you,” Clarke says. Bellamy just stares back from the other side of the world, saying nothing.

“So, uh, your manager got in contact with me a few weeks ago, as I’m sure you already know,” Kane says. “We’re very honoured and excited to get to work with you on this project.”

“I haven’t said yes yet,” Bellamy points out.

“Right, of course,” Kane says. “But given the opportunity, I think we can work together to create something truly incredible. Don’t you agree, Clarke?”

“Definitely,” Clarke says. “It’ll be great.” It comes out a little dry, but she doubts they can tell, given the sound quality of the call.

“That’s the best you can come up with?” Bellamy says with a snort. “Aren’t you supposed to be a writer?”

Clarke has to fight against the incoming eyeroll.

“Pardon me, Mr Blake,” she says instead. “It will be a monumental work of art and a pivotal turning point for the biographic medium, the likes of which have seldom been seen before.”

She can almost feel Kane glaring at her through the screen.

“I think what Ms Griffin _means_ is-” he begins.

“No sex shit,” Bellamy says.

The call is silent for a moment.

“Sorry, what was that?” Kane says.

“No gossip mag type shit about my sex life,” Bellamy says. “No exposè about me being some twenty-first century Lothario. If I say a person or a subject is off-limits, they’re off-limits, no arguments. And I get final say on any edits. Nothing goes to print without me and my team’s complete approval.”

Kane is quiet again.

“So - sorry, are you - are you saying you agree? To do the book with us?” he asks.

“That depends,” Bellamy says. “Do you agree to my terms, or not?”

“Absolutely!” Kane says, the spitting image of overeagerness.

“How about you, Ms. Griffin?” Bellamy says. “Do you agree?”

Clarke purses her lips. The spiteful part of her wants to fight him on it, in the name of artistic integrity. She’s not going to be able to write anything meaningful if her subject refuses to put any of his flaws to print. Chances are, it’ll end up being a 300-page fluff piece about how this rock ‘n’ roll bad boy truly has a heart of gold - it’s nothing like what she would do, what she wants to put her name to, but. She doesn’t have much of a choice here, really. And Kane is right - Bellamy’s name alone will make this book a bestseller, and then Clarke can pursue the projects she really wants to be doing, get a house in the country and write the novel she’s been itching to start on.

So she tells him: “I do.”

“Good,” he says, the very picture of smugness. She’s already regretting this decision. “My agent will send over the contract and the tour details.”

“Thank you so much for your time,” Kane says.

“Don’t mention it,” Bellamy says, and then he hangs up with a _pop_.

“Well, that was more straightforward than I expected,” Kane says brightly.

“Because he stonewalled us into agreeing to his terms without a fight,” Clarke says.

“They were reasonable, mostly,” Kane says.

“Spoken like the guy who doesn’t have to write the damn thing,” Clarke huffs.

“Just think, Clarke,” Kane says. “This time next year, you’ll have a bestselling novel under your belt, and you’ll never have to deal with him again.”

It _sounds_ true enough, but somehow, Clarke can’t bring herself to believe him.


	2. Chapter 2

**JUNE - SWITZERLAND**

Clarke’s flight touches down in Zürich at 8:14am. She has one well-organised suitcase, small enough to be her carry-on, her phone, and a pit in the bottom of her stomach.

She knows she’s being irrational - this is an incredible opportunity, really, and it’s basically been handed to her on a silver platter. She gets to travel across Europe for three months with talented musicians, all her flights and accommodation paid for by the record label, and all she has to do is churn out one measly biography that, if Kane’s sale projections are correct, will set her up for the next five years at least. The thing about Clarke, though, is that knowing she’s being irrational or unreasonable and putting that thought into action are two very different things. It’s a fear response, born out of - well, born out of things she refuses to think about, which might be part of the problem - and it results in moments like these, where she’s standing in the airport of a beautiful European city wondering if she can back out and just drop off the face of the earth, maybe start a farm somewhere.

But no. She can’t do early mornings and she’d be shit at hard labour, so - she soldiers on.

Anya, Bellamy’s manager and Clarke’s main contact throughout this process, meets her outside the International Arrivals terminal, leaning on a black sedan. She’s in the middle of a phone call so, still talking a mile a minute about venue requirements, she nods at Clarke and gestures vaguely for her to get in the backseat. Clarke obeys, moving quicker than she usually would - something about Anya makes her really not want to get on the woman’s bad side - to stow her bag in the trunk and hop in the car.

They’ve been driving for twenty minutes when Anya finally hangs up the phone.

“How was the flight?” she asks.

“Good,” Clarke says, not because it was, but because she’s fairly certain Anya couldn’t give a shit either way.

“Great,” Anya says, and launches into a spiel about the plan for the tour and what’s expected of everyone, clearly not trusting that Clarke read the detailed itinerary and employee agreement she was sent (she did, three times over).

Clarke’s slated to accompany them on the whole European leg of the tour, plus the first few weeks in North America, with a possible extension if Clarke feels it’s necessary, which - it won’t be. She’ll be sleeping on one of the tour buses, for the most part. Sometimes there’s the option of external accomodation, but Anya says, in a tone that suggests she would vote to bring back the guillotine, that such a choice might be seen as disloyal or elitist by the crew and Clarke should take that into consideration.

Clarke has a general idea of what she’s in for - she’s not the head music writer at her work for nothing, and she’s done her research (or as much as she could, given Bellamy’s strict no-interview rule). Bellamy’s current backing band consists of Nathan Miller (bass), John Murphy (keyboard/synth and _cello_ , oddly enough), Emori (lead guitar), and Harper (drums). From what she can gather, Bellamy and Nathan - or Miller, as he’s mononymously referred to in the album credits - have worked together for nearly a decade. John Murphy replaced former lead guitarist John Mbege in 2013, and then was promoted - or demoted, depending on one’s opinion of keyboardists - and replaced by his kind-of girlfriend, Emori. Octavia, Bellamy’s sister, had been on drums since before she could legally drive, only to unceremoniously leave under mysterious circumstances in December of 2017. Harper quietly took over a few months later. Clarke’s sure there’s a story there, but she has no fucking clue how to get Bellamy to talk about it, and she doubts any of his bandmates are disloyal enough to give her the details behind his back.

 _The Grounders_ , an experimental shoegaze/post-punk trio from Portland, are opening for Bellamy for part of the European leg. They’ve only been formally working together for a few years, but they quickly established themselves as the Next Big Thing in the avant garde movement. Their first release was a little too noise rock for Clarke, but their sound evolved pretty quickly and she can see how they’d be a good fit with Bellamy’s sound. Their frontwoman Lexa is a part-time supermodel, and Clarke actually almost hooked up with her at the  _Vanity Fair_ Oscars Party in 2016, so she’s sort of looking forward to meeting her again. She hasn’t gotten laid in an embarrassingly long time, and if there’s any place to reconcile that problem, it’s on tour.

Anya drops Clarke and her suitcase off at the front of the venue, points her to where the tour buses are currently parked, and then drives off to go run some errands, or possibly negotiate peace between Palestine and Israel - both are equally possible, in Clarke’s mind.

She rolls her suitcase over to bus one, her assigned home, and stops in front of it. One of the things she noted, looking at her paperwork, was that Bellamy doesn’t have a bus to himself - he shares with his crew and bandmates, even though at this point his career, there’s no way he has to. Something about that irks her - it’s the inconsistency, she thinks. By all accounts, he’s the epitome of a spoiled artist, but then, who’s to say she can trust those accounts? People lie and exacerbate in this industry all the time - Clarke’s seen it happen with her own eyes, and it’s something she’s doing her best to avoid at all costs, even if it means she has to work a little harder and longer to be recognised for her writing. She’s not interested in sensationalism.

Then again, she thinks as she watches a guy, dressed only in what look to be heart shaped pasties, jump out the bus and run past her, it’s not technically sensationalism if it’s true.

~ ~ ~

It’s a few hours before she sees another conscious soul - it’s rare to see a musician awake before noon - so she does her best to be quiet, plugs her laptop into the wall outlet near the kitchen table and answers some emails while she waits. She doesn’t even notice one of them coming in until he closes the fridge, making her jump. She turns around in her seat to see a tall, lanky dude with dark brown hair opening a jar of peanut butter.

“Hi, I’m Jasper,” the guy says, grinning.

“Clarke,” she says, reaching out across the counter to shake his hand and receiving a slightly sticky fist bump instead. “You’re the sound engineer, right?”

“That’s me,” he says.

“I think you know my friend Monty Green?”

His face brightens, which - Clarke didn’t know that was possible, she sort of thought his expression had reached diminishing returns of brightness. “Monty! I love that guy. Yeah, we went to college together.”

Clarke nods, doesn’t want to say _I know_ , because she figures it might be weird for him to discover how much research she’s done on every member of the band and crew.

“Oh, also,” Jasper says, “I have your EP on my phone.”

She freezes, feels her heart thump pathetically soft.

“ _My Dress Hangs There_ is, like, my most played track on iTunes, I think. Even more than _Sandstorm_ , which is saying something, because I went through an embarrassingly long Darude phase."

“Thanks,” she says. “That’s - uh. Do other people know? About the EP?”

“Like, generally? I mean, there was no formal release, and obviously you took it down after -”

“No, I mean - people on this tour.”

“Oh!” he says. “No. I mean, I don’t think so, anyway, nobody’s mentioned it. I’ve only been with these guys for about a month, so I haven’t had time to convert them.”

Clarke taps her fingers restlessly against her leg. “Would you mind maybe not showing it to anyone?”

Jasper looks at her for a moment, before shrugging. “Yeah, sure. Totally your call. If you ever want to, though, people would love it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Clarke says. She won’t. “Thank you, though. I appreciate you - thanks.”

“No worries, dude,” he says, and then he’s off, a sandwich in each hand.

Clarke sits there for a long while, trying to remember those mindfulness habits Monty taught her. The other bus inhabitants trickle in slowly as the day goes by, most of them grunting hello at her as they scour for coffee and/or pop-tarts. It feels a little like a weird _Gilmore Girls_ spin-off, until it comes time for the show that night. Clarke watches from backstage, gets that rush she always gets from watching live performances, but stubbornly refuses to focus on Bellamy - instead, she takes note of his band member’s habits, Miller’s expert control of the bass, Harper’s rollicking drums. It tells her more than any conversation could, watching them work together, the minute nods and looks to each other that represent a kind of symbiotic connection, the telepathic communication that comes when musicians really click. Eventually, she finds herself drawn to Bellamy, despite her best intentions, struck by the way his voice shifts from a low, growly bass to a sweeter, softer baritone. It’s not hard to understand why the venue is packed, and it actually makes her a bit excited to finally get to talk to him - he might be an asshole, but he’s fucking talented, and that’s enough to make her want to know more.

Tour is hectic, though, and Clarke doesn’t actually get a chance to even speak to Bellamy until two nights later, in Belgium, and even then it’s only because Anya forcibly directs him to find her for a ‘quick chat’. She’s sitting at the kitchen table in the bus, checking her emails and trying to note down everything she’s seen so far that might be at all relevant, when suddenly he’s sliding into the opposite side of the booth, face impassive as his shoulders slump. He has wildly bad posture when he sits, she notes, but he manages to make it work for him, somehow. He doesn’t bother with greetings or pleasantries, which she maybe should have expected.

“Ten minutes,” he says, sounding impossibly bored. “Then I’m going to soundcheck.”

She wants to fight him on it - they’re not going to get anywhere with that kind of time limit - but she figures it’ll just waste more of their time, so she nods, clenching her jaw a little.

“So,” Clarke says, “how do you define your music? Do you associate it with any particular genre?”

“That’s your first question,” he says, unimpressed. “You know I have a Wikipedia page, right?”

“Yes, but that’s written by someone else,” Clarke says. “Everyone’s so quick to categorise your sound, I was just wondering if you agree with any of those labels. Does the genre construct appeal to you, or do you think it pigeonholes artists?”

“Rock,” he says. “I’m a rock musician.”

“That’s a bit of a misnomer, though, isn’t it?” Clarke says. “Rock is such an expansive area. Your earlier work was more... lo-fi indie rock. You didn’t really start getting experimental till _Caligula_. I mean, if you compare your current work to some of the tracks off _Augustus_ \- they’re universes apart.”

“I gave you my answer, I don’t care if you disagree with it,” he says.

She stares at him. “Right. Well, on the subject of your musical arc - do you think it’s reflective of the source material? Your songs are intensely personal and autobiographical, underneath the layered soundscapes. Are you attempting to distill moments in time, document something for yourself, or do you tend to shift according to your audience’s needs?”

“What gives you the impression my songs are autobiographical?” Bellamy asks.

“I mean,” Clarke says, genuinely stumped for a moment. “Like - everything about them? Your use of metaphor, the subject matter, the _personal pronouns_ are a bit of a giveaway -”

“You’re aware of _fiction_ , yeah?” he says. “That’s a genre. Counterpart to _non-_ fiction - also a genre.”

“Jesus,” Clarke says, sort of without thinking. She’s just - he really is like this, she’s discovering quickly, he really is an absolute jackass. Certain publications tend to go in on his attitude pretty hard, and she’s always taken them with a grain of salt, but clearly there’s more than a hint of truth to them.

“If you don’t want to talk, we don’t have to,” Bellamy says. “I’m just trying to answer your questions.”

Clarke slams her laptop shut and he smirks, like that’s what he was waiting for, and it’s clear in his expression that he knows he’s won. She’s fuming all of a sudden, _hating_ how easily she fell for his bullshit. He’s so transparently trying to irritate her, it can barely be classed as manipulation, and yet here she is, frustration rolling through her body in red hot waves.

“Listen, Bellamy,” Clarke snaps. “Why do you think I’m here?”

“To profit off other people’s hard work?”

“I didn’t even _want_ this fucking job,” she says.

“Nobody’s forcing you to be here, princess,” he snarks.

“Your team are the ones who approached us,” Clarke says. “You know that, right? They rushed what should’ve been a year long process, and now they’re pushing me to get this published by the end of the year - why do you think that is?”

He stares at her, expressionless. She wonders if that’s just a permanent feature of his face.

“Your public image is in the shithole,” she says. “You still have your fans - obviously, otherwise you wouldn’t be making any money - but it’s not a secret what everyone else in this industry thinks of you. People think you have a shitty, self-entitled attitude, which, whatever. So does everyone else in this fucking industry. The difference is, guys like Alex Turner have learned how to cover it up, whereas you clearly haven’t. And now I’m supposed to come in here and give you depth and complexity, prove that you’re some damaged, tortured artist who just needs love and understanding, but here’s the thing - all I’ve seen so far is a bitter asshole who’s running out of chord progressions.” She stands up to leave, grabbing her laptop. “Enjoy soundcheck.”

~ ~ ~

Clarke spends that night’s performance pacing backstage, waiting to receive a call from Kane telling her she’s fired and _what the hell were you thinking, Clarke, honestly_ \- but it doesn’t come. It’s not entirely comforting, there’s a good chance Bellamy just hasn’t gotten around to telling his manager about her outburst, but she’s tired herself out, thinking about how quickly she managed to fuck up this job, how Kane is probably going to accuse her of doing it on purpose and, honestly, he might be right, so - she heads back to the bus before anyone can try to drag her to the afterparty, ready to make some instant cocoa and go to sleep.

She’s in the kitchen, peeling off her jacket and searching for a clean mug, which might be a hopeless endeavour, when she sees her notebook lying open on the counter. She frowns - she never takes it out, it’s mostly a safety blanket at this point - and picks it up. It’s open on a page tainted by ink, lines crossed out angrily, a familiar sight, but when she skims over the actual lyrics, they’re not hers.

 _What else could I say?_ _  
_ ~~_Is there_ ~~ _  
_ _What else could I possibly, possibly say?_ _  
_ _All of my words are_ ~~_stricken_ ~~ _~~struck with~~ _ _lost to decay_  
~~I don’t know how to make you stay~~

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Clarke jumps at the sound, and when she looks up, Bellamy is standing in the doorway. He looks furious enough that she drops the book like it’s burned her, lets it fall onto the counter.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t-” she stammers.

“Really bringing integrity back to the journalistic medium, aren’t you,” Bellamy snarls. “Two shows in and you’re already snooping through my shit?”

“I wasn’t snooping,” Clarke protests. “It lying open, and I have a moleskin too, so I thought-”

“The song lyrics didn’t tip you off?”

Clarke opens her mouth, and then closes it abruptly. She can’t explain that part to him, not now, not like this.

“I’m sorry!” she says. “Okay? I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure you’re all torn up about it,” he spits.

“Can you just calm down for a second? I’m sorry. I know how personal songwriting is -”

“What would you know about it?”

Clarke sighs.

“Look, Bellamy,” she says. “It was a honest mistake. I mean it, I wouldn’t invade your privacy like that intentionally. But - we have to live _and_ work together for the next three months, at least, which means we need to sort this out. Clearly, we don’t get along -”

“We don’t get along because you’re a fucking vulture.”

“- but I can’t do my job if you won’t talk to me! There’s only so much filler bullshit I can write before I start losing my mind, so - make up your mind, okay? Do you want to put an end to this and just send me home, or do you want to cooperate?”

Bellamy stares at her, narrows his eyes.

“If you touch my shit again,” he says, “you won’t have a job to go home to.”

He stalks off angrily.

Clarke exhales, rubbing her hand over her eyes. She’s leans against the kitchen counter, so fucking _tired_ all of a sudden. She knows this is bad, knows that was a genuine threat and he will likely follow through if she doesn’t work to get off his shit list.

But still - part of her can’t help feeling a sick sort of satisfaction. It’s the first time she’s seen him properly lose his cool, drop the bullshit blasé attitude and just be real for a moment. Now there’s _proof_ that she has an effect on him, however negative it may be.

It feels like a win, though part of her knows it probably shouldn't.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're really going wild with these frequent updates huh? also there is now a playlist to accompany this fic! i'll be adding to it throughout the writing process, but regardless i definitely recommend listening to kool thing during this chapter to add to ur Reading Experience: https://open.spotify.com/user/vetsxumbxvh3ur0eg52waxbna/playlist/1O2ex3aBqADMcDEv6VBFTN?si=1FsVoWkQRpmqMXcBGK81ZA

**JUNE - GERMANY**

_Touring is different to anything I have ever experienced. It’s a constant zipline between extremes: the wired, frenetic energy of a show contrasts sharply with sleepy, slow-moving mornings and afternoons denoted by the zombie-like shuffle of the band and crew, the smell of cup-a-soup and microwavable meals. I haven’t seen a single member of the band anywhere near the vicinity of a vegetable this whole time. It’s remarkable these people don’t get sick more often - they drink till sunrise and sleep till soundcheck, and somehow still look like supermodels when they’re hungover._

Clarke sighs, pulling back from her laptop to rub at her eyes. It’s been almost two weeks and five cities, and she’s yet to properly make headway on this stupid book. She has plenty of descriptive passages, but it’s all the same filler shit she’s spend her life railing against to anyone who would listen - it has its place, for sure, but if there’s no substance to the piece, no larger point that its trying to reach, it’s just cardboard writing with no nutritional value whatsoever. She hates herself for it, but she hates Bellamy even more for making this process as difficult as humanly possible. The only brightside is he’s yet to follow through on his threat to get her fired, though at this point she’s wondering if that would be so bad. Not only is Bellamy refusing to talk to her, but him freezing her out apparently extends to the rest of the band. None of them, save for Jasper, who doesn’t really count, have spoken more than a word to her, leaving her to quietly skulk in the background and try to observe everyone as much as possible without making them hate her more than they already do.

She’s learned a fair bit, considering how little she sees of them - they’re generally either sleeping or working on refining their set, with little breaks in between to grab food and occasionally watch an episode of either _The Office_ (Miller and Harper), _Drunk History_ (Bellamy), or _Vikings_ (Murphy, Emori, and occasionally Bellamy, although he always spends half the episode grumbling about historical inaccuracies - it’d be endearing, if he didn’t spend the other half glaring at Clarke).

Murphy and Emori are in an On stage right now, though you wouldn’t necessarily know it from looking at them; they’re not big on PDA and they argue like they’re getting paid for it. Clarke only figured it out because she’s been locked out of the bus on three separate occasions so they can have sex in the shared kitchen, which, _gross_. Miller eats the healthiest out of the five, although it’s a low bar - Clarke saw Murphy pour red bull into a bowl of frosted flakes the other day. He and Bellamy work out together almost every day, going for runs or sometimes hitting the gym, if the hotel Anya’s booked includes one. It’s a weird phenomenon, the whole hotel room thing; the label is apparently contractually obligated to provide alternative accommodation, but all of the musicians sleep almost exclusively in the bus. The crew probably have to sleep in motel rooms or something equally low-quality, which is a shitty double standard but that’s pretty much how record labels operate, so it seems like a waste to just have a bunch of pre-booked rooms going unused. Maybe Clarke should just start sleeping in there; she’s been relegated to a bottom bunk that’s closest to the bathroom, which means she’s woken by the toilet flush at least three times a night. Anya did warn her that it wasn’t a good idea to abandon the bus, but Clarke doesn’t have much left to lose in terms of her relationships with the band. She could at least be getting a good night’s sleep every once in a while to make things a little easier.

Right then, her phone buzzes once, then twice with texts from Raven that make the table vibrate.

_u dead?_

_or are u really still this bad at texting_

Clarke rolls her eyes.

_Both_

_ah cool_

_did u take bellamy down with u murder suicide style or are u letting him live so you can gone girl him_

_I don’t have enough patience to Gone Girl him, s_ _o the former, I guess_

_seriously tho how is it_

_Yeah fine_

_Hamburg last night, Berlin tomorrow_

_Europe is beautiful obvs_

_wow u mean the continent famous for being aesthetically pleasing? what a shock_

_i mean whats the roadie life like_

_is lexa as hot in person_

_is BELLAMY for that matter ?_

_Tour is fine_

_Nobody’s really talking to me_

_what did u do_

_Nothing!_

Raven doesn’t reply for a while, which is the text-equivalent of an unimpressed eyebrow raise.

_There was a slight misunderstanding_

_He thought I was looking through his stuff_

_were u_

_Technically yes, but not on purpose_

_… what_

_Long story_

_Anyway he yelled at me and now his band is boycotting me in solidarity, I guess_

_wow_

_u turned his whole crew against you in two weeks_

_impressive_

_Turning off my phone now_

_love u xox_

Clarke sighs and bangs her head on the keyboard, praying to either break the laptop or knock herself out. A combination of both would be good, actually, but beggars can’t be choosers.

~ ~ ~

Clarke skips soundcheck, because it’s not really any fun sitting alone in the audience being ignored by everyone, but she heads backstage for the actual show, because a) this is still her job, regardless of whether she enjoys it, and b) this is one of the rare parts that she _does_ actually enjoy. Bellamy is a lot of things, but untalented? Not one of them.

Currently, The Grounders are six minutes deep in an eleven minute song that features a window-rattling beat, a lot of drones and distortion, and a non-lyrical vocal from Lexa that somehow manages to be haunting and whiny at the same time. It’s not quite Clarke’s cup of tea, but she can still appreciate Roan’s command of the guitar and Echo’s multi-layered synth set up. They’re very good at what they do, for all it’s a sort of repetitive sound.

“You ready for this?” Emori asks, who’s standing beside Clarke of all a sudden.

Clarke blinks, confused on a number of fronts. This is maybe the first time Emori has actually acknowledged her existence this whole time, and apparently she’s broken that barrier to… ask Clarke if she’s ‘ready’ for a show she’s already seen seven times.

“Uh, yeah,” Clarke says.

“And that’s what you’re wearing.”

She looks down at her long-sleeved white button down and slacks. The clothes she’s worn thus far are a bit more preppy and formal than she normally goes for in her free time, but - this is her job, and for the moment, she’s trying to maintain some sense of professionalism. “Well, I mean - is my outfit an issue?”

Emori shrugs, and goes to take her place by the stage, waiting for her entrance. Clarke fiddles with her belt, self-conscious all of a sudden. It’s not like it matters, right? She was always taught it’s better to be overdressed than underdressed in the workplace, especially when she’s on such thin ice with her coworkers. Although, maybe that rule doesn’t extend to musicians - less seems to literally be more when it comes to effort, here.

Right as Clarke’s considering running back to the bus to change into a henley and some jeans, Lexa exits the stage, brushing past her. She gives Clarke a sharp smile, which has been their main form of communication thus far, but says nothing and heads straight for the stage door. The Grounders always go for runs after their set, which Clarke just fundamentally does not understand. All she wants to do after a show is sleep, and she doesn’t even _do_ anything, just stands offstage and frets.

Bellamy’s set is a little different tonight. Clarke’s not quite familiar enough with the routine to recognise every trend, but the shift in energy seems almost deliberate. They slam from song to song in a frenzy, barely taking breaths in between. Clarke notices the setlist rarely leaves the realm of _Nero_ and _Claudius,_ Bellamy’s last two albums. He never even touches his early stuff, only ventures back to _Tiberius_ to dig up _Roots_ , a cult favourite amongst diehard fans. They ricochet from _Gut Punch_ to _Stonecutter_. It leaves Clarke kind of dizzy, and she’s wondering how they’re going to sustain this kind of energy when all of a sudden they dip, slow down to a beat lower than a pulse for _Indigo Child_. It’s one of her favourites, not that she’s ever going to admit that to - well, _anyone_ , now, and she finds herself getting sort of lost in the haze of his crooning and Emori’s hypnotic picking pattern.

And then the song is over and Bellamy’s saying something, and she doesn’t really hear most of it except for the end, which happens to be: “... like to welcome a very special guest on stage, Clarke Griffin!”

It takes her a long moment to register exactly what’s happening, and before she can do anything, there’s a stagehand behind her, whispering: “Go!”

“What?” she says but the stagehand just pushes her forward, and all of a sudden she’s onstage in front of 15,000 people wearing _motherfucking slacks_.

Clarke looks over at Bellamy, finds him smirking, cocking an eyebrow. Right at that moment, a lot of things start making sense.

“Where’s your guitar?” Emori hisses from behind her, and Clarke whips around, panicked.

“I don’t have one,” she says dumbly. Emori looks between her and Bellamy, realisation dawning on her face.

“For fuck’s sake,” she mutters, ducking her head under the strap of her electric before she passes it to Clarke. “It’s not tuned to the song,” she says. “Sorry.”

The fact that _Emori_ , of all people, seems genuinely apologetic just confirms to Clarke that she is absolutely fucked, and before she can even _think_ for a second about what the hell to do here, Bellamy’s switching guitars and diving into whatever the fuck this song is with a quick strum, Miller joining him quickly on bass.

She’s considering just walking offstage and running off, maybe revisiting that whole farm idea, when all of a sudden she realises - she knows this song. Loves it, even, used to play it with Wells in his basement even though he never really got the feel for guitar.

Clarke gives herself the shortest second to breathe in, and then she’s tugging the strap over her head, turning down the volume of the guitar so she can silently retune using Emori’s pedal board.

It’s in a finicky key, because Sonic Youth liked to pull that kind of shit back in the day, so it takes a while to get right. She can hear that Bellamy’s started singing already, but the longer Clarke holds the guitar in her hands, the more it’s all coming back to her, muscle memory activating like lights under her skin, and when the chorus hits, she plugs the lead back in and joins the others as Bellamy sings: _I don’t wanna, I don’t think so._

She hears a little break in his voice when she starts, glances up to see him staring at her in surprise and annoyance, and it just eggs her on, prompts her to add some twists, stamp down on a couple of Emori’s pedals to dirty up the sound. She’s relishing in Bellamy’s anger, but more than that, his shock at seeing her recover so quickly from his stupid little prank. He recovers too, unfortunately, but not quite quick enough to gain back the upper hand, and by the time they get to the breakdown, she’s feeling that familiar galvanism shooting through her, making her feel infallible, unstoppable.

“Hey, kool thing,” Clarke says into the mic Emori’s uses for the occasional backing vocal, her voice dropping into a low and sultry tone. “Come here. Sit down beside me.” She looks at Bellamy. “There’s something I gotta ask you. Don’t be shy. I just wanna know, what are you gonna do for me?” He’s looking back, but there’s not - the anger’s not there anymore, or it’s not palpable enough for her to pinpoint, anyway. It’s been replaced by a weird kind of curiosity, like he hasn’t really seen her this whole time. He looks at her, considering, examining, and it makes her want to squirm, shrink under his calculating gaze, but she refuses, stands her ground. “I mean, are you gonna liberate us girls from male white corporate oppression?”

And then he joins in, looping around her as they sing _fear of a female planet_ in a weird, twisted kind of round.

They crash into the bridge, and Bellamy pulls back from his mic, crosses the stage to come to a stop in front of her. She moves to face him, and they play like that for another fourteen bars, his shoulder dipping close to her chest, working into and off of each other simultaneously, fingers flying over the fretboard maniacally. Clarke thinks she might be bleeding, actually - she doesn’t have a pick and she hasn’t played guitar in two years - but it’s hard to care, hard to feel anything other than rage and exhilaration right now.

Bellamy darts back to his mic for the final verse and chorus, but his eyes never leave her, and she can’t bring herself to look away first, refuses to be the one to back down. They play frantically, a shared frenzy, until the final finishing strum that reverberates through the air, makes Clarke’s whole body shiver.

The crowd is screaming but there’s a thick separation between her and the stands; it’s all muffled, like she’s underwater, and her head is swimming, now, heady with the adrenaline of everything that just happened, and it’s all she can do not to collapse as she hands the guitar back to Emori, mumbling a _sorry_ for the instrument’s now-fucked up tuning, and storms off the stage.

~ ~ ~

She takes off out the stage door before anyone backstage can come up to her, ask her what the hell just happened (she doesn’t even know how to _begin_ answering that question). Mercifully, the tour bus is empty, so Clarke grabs her phone and a beer from the fridge, and sits on the steps with the door open. She figures she has half an hour before her peace is interrupted, maybe forty five minutes if they stretch out the encore like they did in Switzerland, which is almost enough time to pull herself together so she doesn’t end up scratching Bellamy’s eyes out. That would be bad, she reminds herself. There would likely be a lawsuit involved, possibly even jail time, so she tries not to focus on it, but she’s so completely flooded with rage that it’s hard for her to _think_ about anything else. So she just sits there, replaying everything that happened, sipping her beer and quietly fuming.

Maybe the most agonising part of it is that she knows she fucking enjoyed it, can practically feel the endorphins rolling off her like waves. Of course she liked it - she’s good at it, _great_ , even. She didn’t stop out of disinterest, even though she’d almost managed to convince herself over time that she didn’t care, that there wasn’t some part of her always yearning to reach for a guitar, for a pen and a notebook - even now, her hands are stretching involuntarily, in search of comfort.

Instead, she grips the beer tighter and waits for her pulse to slow down.

At some point, the crew start filing out of the venue. Most of them take their a smoke break after the encore, try to gear themselves up for a long night of packing up equipment before they hit the road.

Lexa and Roan come back from their run, sparing a nod for Clarke as they push past her into the bus. Echo’s probably already making her way to whichever local bar is the designated after party spot for tonight. It strikes Clarke that they might be the only people on the whole lot that don’t know what just happened, and she thinks maybe she should go in and have a nightcap with them (or whatever their healthy alternative to a nightcap is - kombucha, maybe), spare herself the looks of disdain or pity from everyone else, even just for a brief moment, but then Miller’s walking up to her, sitting next to her on the step.

“You didn’t know,” he says flatly, after a long stretch of quiet.

“Nope,” she says.

He sucks at his teeth, nods. Clarke wonders idly if Bellamy’s done anything like this before. Miller doesn’t seem that surprised.

“That was a dick move,” he says. “You handled it well, though. I didn’t know you could play.”

“Neither did he,” Clarke says. “I think that was the point.”

“Yeah. Emori’s yelling at him about it right now.”

Clarke nods.

“Bellamy… he’s a good guy, honestly,” Miller says after another pause. She rolls her eyes. “I’m serious. I’ve known him a long time.”

“I know,” Clarke says. “I’m not expecting you to be on my side.”

He looks at her, confused. “I am. He shouldn’t have done it.”

“But you’re still defending him,” she says, standing up and wiping her hands, wet from the layer of condensation on the beer, off on her jeans. “And I get it. You’re loyal, all of you are. That’s why none of you will talk to me.”

Miller sighs, looks at his hands. “Clarke, we never meant to -”

“You did,” she says. “Look - you can think what you want of me. But I’m just trying to do my job.”

“That’s sort of the problem.”

She stares at him.

“We’ve had shitty experiences with journalists before,” Miller says. “Bellamy especially. It nearly fucked things up really badly for him.”

“Then why did he agree to this?” Clarke asks. “ _His_ management were the ones-”

“Exactly, his management,” Miller says. “Not him.”

“You don’t really expect me to believe he’s some innocent victim here, right?”

“No,” Miller says, “but he’s not a villain either. I mean it, Clarke. If you just talked to him-”

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do?” she says. “He won’t listen to me, Miller. I’m trying to be fair - I want the _truth_ , not some bullshit fabrications, okay? I’m not a fucking asshole and I’m not trying to screw anyone over. I’ll just leave, okay? I’m not gonna spin this into something negative, even though I have every right to after the shit he pulled tonight, but - I can’t do this forever. I’m not gonna let him treat me like shit, turn all his crew against me, just for a book I didn’t even want to write in the first place.”

He looks at her, a pained - or, well, frustrated, more than anything - look on his face. “Don’t leave. Seriously. You’re right, we’ve all been assholes, not just him, but it’s not worth quitting over. I’ll talk to everyone, and Bellamy… he’ll come around, okay?”

“Miller,” Clarke says.

“He will,” Miller says. “I’ve never seen anything like what you did tonight. I’m not just saying that. You showed him up - you outshone him at his own fucking concert, it was gold.”

Clarke snorts, but she doesn’t refute it. She’s self-aware enough to know she killed it. “Yeah, I doubt that’s going to help with the him-hating-me thing.”

“But you also made him better, made him work harder,” Miller says. “You should’ve seen him when he came offstage. He was -” Miller cuts himself off. “Touring can be rough, especially when you’ve been doing it for as long as us. It’s easy to forget why you even like doing it. But tonight was different. I haven’t seen Bellamy that pumped about a show in… a long time.”

Clarke considers the words for a moment, lets herself feel the weight of them. She actually believes him, despite everything, understands what he means about the monotony of this lifestyle, but it doesn’t make the core concept any less confusing. Why her? What makes her so special that she’s supposedly revived his near-dead passion for music? She’s not even a real fucking musician.

“Okay,” she says eventually. “So, what do you want from me, then?”

“Don’t quit,” he says. “Just - give him another chance.”

Clarke exhales, looks out across the lot. More and more people are coming out of stage door, and the increasingly familiar soundscape of the post-show routine is coming to life; people chattering excitedly, discussing what went wrong or what worked, doing cool down exercises, chugging water and wiping sweat off their brows and bodies with hand towels. She realises right then how much she’s aching to be a part of it, to be a participant instead of an observer. It’s something she hasn’t let herself want since her dad died and her burgeoning music career went with him.

“Fine,” she says. “But I’m taking a top bunk tonight, one of the ones that’s closer to the kitchen. If I have to hear Murphy piss one more time, I’m going to lose my mind.”

Miller actually cracks a smile at that. “Fair enough.”

“Okay,” she says. “Night, then.”

He shifts aside so she can get back into the bus. “Night, Griffin.”

Once she’s claimed her new bed, she lies awake for hours, too wired to sleep, replaying the show over and over in her head. When she sleeps, she dreams of her dad and his old Sonic Youth vinyl crackling in the living room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we are again, 3rd time in a week ! i can't remember the last time i updated anything as frequently and, like, fervently! and it's absolutely and completely fuelled by all your comments, so thank you so much!! im so glad people are responding to this concept bc it's kind of my baby and i'm v excited abt what i have planned ! hope u enjoy this chap it's mostly just a lot of conversations but THAT'S LIFE ya know.... it's just all of us talking to each other a lot,,, and 12 straight episodes of healthy communication and healing is really all i want for b & c in season 5 which is a pipe dream i know so. living vicariously through this fic.  
> reminder that the playlist that accompanies this story is [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/vetsxumbxvh3ur0eg52waxbna/playlist/1O2ex3aBqADMcDEv6VBFTN?si=TGG4UD8DRSWhEmbbuMdAUg) and im adding to it over time - some songs on there will start 2 make sense a bit more as the story progresses ! some are just songs i think these versions of bell and clarke would rly get into and/or draw inspo from.

**JUNE - NETHERLANDS**

When Clarke wakes up, she instinctively reaches for her phone - maybe not the healthiest habit, but whatever - and switches on her mobile data, which, as it turns out, is a pretty dumb move.

Her phone floods with a tidal wave of notifications; emails, Facebook mentions, Instagram followers, and all that on top of the texts she’d already received throughout the night while her phone was on silent. She blinks a few times, thinks there’s a very real chance she might still be dreaming, and then she remembers last night, the screaming crowd, the flood of fear quickly followed by anger and then triumph.

She sits up too quickly and bangs her head on the roof of the bus.

“Fuck,” she mutters. Below her, Emori groans and turns over. Maybe top bunk wasn’t the brightest idea.

Rubbing her head, she swings her legs over the side of her bed and tries to jump down as gently as possible - it’s still only 10, which means nobody else will be awake for at least another two hours - to make her way to the kitchen and have a very quiet panic attack.

The first thing Clarke resolves to do is answer the eleven texts she has from Raven, which are, in chronological order:

_http://youtu.be/-wtFLFKA_

_IS THAT YOU PLAYING FUCKIG GUITAR IN THIS VIDEO_

_HE SAID UR NAME ITS LITERALLY U_

_WHAT HAPPENED????_

_i didnt even KNO U COULD PLAY GUITAR_

_you full on STEPPED ON HIS NECK why did he even bring you out if u were just gonna show him up!_

_i mean i know why_

_he obvs wants 2 bang_

_SERIOUSLY CLARKE CALL ME WHERE ARE U_

_YOU BETTER BE EITHER ASLEEP OR HITTING THAT_

_okay obviously its the former bc u have.. NO game so just call me as soon as u wake up FOR THE LOVE OF GOd_

She takes a quick look at the link Raven sent - it’s a video of last night’s performance, and Clarke has to closes it before it’s even five seconds in because it’s too overwhelming. The sheer number of views is just too much for her to think about this early, so she saves the video for later and calls Raven, who answers halfway through the first ring, which might be a new record, even for her.

“Clarke?”

“Hi,” Clarke says, opening the fridge for no reason other than to just stare blankly into it as she wonders what her life has become.

Raven makes a choked noise that’s almost a squeak, but not quite, because - it’s _Raven_. “ _Hi_? That’s how you answer after the veritable shitstorm you unloaded on the internet last night?”

“I didn’t unload anything,” she says. “Bellamy’s the one who - wait, what time is it in LA? Were you just waiting up for me to call?”

“It’s only 1am,” Raven says. “And - maybe. Everyone at the office was going nuts today.”

“Oh, god, I’m not in trouble with Kane, am I?”

“No, he’s mostly just happy about the publicity for the moment, but you might be getting a call from him tomorrow. Or, today for you, I guess.”

“Great,” Clarke says, shutting the fridge door with a bang and leaning against it.

“So? What the fuck happened?”

She rubs her face with her hand. She’d really rather be outside for this conversation, away from prying ears, but the bus is moving and she’s not about to pull a _Lady Bird_. Unless Bellamy wakes up before they get to Amsterdam, and then she might.

“Uh, I don’t know, it’s pretty self explanatory. He was still pissed at me for thinking I looked through his shit, and also for like, me just existing in the first place, I think, and I guess he told his band that I’d agreed to be a guest musician for the song. I was just standing backstage and then they made me go on, I had no idea what the fuck was happening until he started playing.”

“Jesus. I mean, I assumed there was something weird going on, but - you really didn’t know? Like, at all?”

“Nope.”

“God. That’s - I’m sorry, that’s really shit.”

“Thank god my dad passed on his love for Kim Gordon, I guess.”

Raven’s quiet for a moment.

“So, that’s why you never mentioned the guitar thing, huh,” she says. “‘Cause of your dad.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, Clarke.”

Clarke shrugs, even though Raven can’t see it, toys with one of the holes in her raggedy t-shirt. “It’s not, like, a hugely traumatic thing. I stopped after he died, but it was never - I’m not, like, scared to touch a guitar.”

“Clearly,” Raven says. “I mean, you fucking killed it.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m serious, dude. I think you have actual fans now.”

“I haven’t even looked at social media since I went to bed,” Clarke says. “How bad is it?”

“It’s not _bad_ , exactly. People are confused about who you are and why he brought you onstage, but, y’know, you’re and they can see that, so they’re onboard.” Raven pauses for a moment. “Also, people sort of think you might be hate-fucking Bellamy.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope. You should maybe put out a tweet or something, clarify things.”

“I hate Twitter,” Clarke grumbles.

“I know, babe.”

Clarke’s phone buzzes again, rattling at her ear. “Okay, I should probably do some damage control. Which is such bullshit, I didn’t even _do the damage_.”

“I know. Want me to fly over there and beat him up for you?”

Clarke smiles. “Nah, he’s not worth the airfare. Love you.”

“Love you, babe. Keep me updated.”

Clarke hangs up and looks out the window at the blurry Netherlands landscape. As a concept, jumping the fuck out is feeling more and more enticing by the second.

~ ~ ~

Apparently, there’s some deity out there who’s decided to take pity on Clarke, because they arrive at their destination before anyone else wakes up. She rushes out immediately in search of coffee, and also ideally a laundromat, because the pajamas she’s wearing are her only clean clothes. She throws a coat on top to try and hide them, but - who’s she trying to impress, at this point? There’s no use trying to maintain a sense of professionalism _now_.

As she waits in line at the first cafe she can find, bag of laundry wedged between her legs, she continues replying to emails and checking notifications. She’s been sorting through things on her phone for the last forty-five minutes and still hasn’t sent out any kind of statement - she has an influx of new followers on her Instagram and Twitter, most of them flocking to her mentions and comments to either scream or ask some very personal questions about Bellamy that, really, even if she _knew_ how big -

“Hey, Griffin,” a voice says behind her.

She turns around and sees Murphy behind her, wearing sunglasses, short-shorts, and a shirt that says _Free Winona_. She opens her mouth to respond just as the person in front of her finishes up, and she finds herself at the front of the line.

“Uh,” she says as the server looks at her expectantly.

“What do you want?” Murphy asks, coming to stand next to her, looking at the menu.

“Just - a mocha,” Clarke says.

He nods, and then rattles off an order in perfect Dutch to the server. He pays for her before Clarke even knows what’s going on, and then makes his way over to an empty table. She follows, feeling very confused, as is the norm on this trip.

“I’ll get you back,” she says.

“Don’t worry about it,” he replies.

She wants to protest, but it’s not like Murphy can’t afford it, and she’s not sure of how involved he was in last night’s - well, last night’s _sabotage,_  so she just shrugs it off. “You speak Dutch,” she says.

“I speak a bit of everything,” he says. “Comes in handy on tour.”

“I bet,” she says. He’s skimming over the newspaper, but apparently hasn’t found anything worth reading, because he huffs and chucks it over to the next table.

“So,” he says, “you play?”

“I can,” she says. “I don’t really anymore.”

“Seems like a waste,” he says.

Clarke narrows her eyes. “Well, it’s my choice.”

“Of course.”

The waiter brings them the mocha, an espresso, and some thick-looking, golden brown substance in a large mug.

At her questioning glance, Murphy says: “Peanut butter latte. It’s not on the menu, you have to ask.”

Clarke doesn’t really know what to say to that. So far, she’s decided that Murphy is either an idiot or an enigmatic genius, and she’s kind of scared to find out which it is.

“Just to clarify,” he says, “we didn’t know. Bellamy just said you were gonna play with us.”

“And you believed him?” Clarke asks.

Murphy shrugs. “He makes questionable choices sometimes.”

“Says the guy wearing denim cut offs in 55 degree weather.”

“They’re comfy. I have full range of motion.”

Emori suddenly swans in before Clarke can ask why, exactly, Murphy _needs_ full range of motion, claiming the espresso and downing the whole thing before she even acknowledges either of them.

“Hey,” she says. “I assume he was just apologising about last night.”

“Uh, yeah,” Clarke says. “Well. Sort of. I don’t think he actually said the word ‘sorry’, but.”

“It was implied,” Murphy says. Emori kicks him. “Sorry,” he adds, wincing.

“Thanks for letting me use your guitar,” Clarke says.

“Well, I didn’t really have much choice,” Emori says bitterly, though Clarke has a feeling the ice in her tone is directed at Bellamy and not Clarke.

“Emori doesn’t like other people touching Otan,” Murphy says, smirking. “She nearly cut my finger off once.”

“Stop being dramatic, John,” she says. “It’s not like I was _aiming_ for you, your hand was just near the cutting board.” She looks at Clarke. “How’d you find it?”

Clarke blinks. “What?”

“The guitar. D’you like it?”

“To clarify, there _is_ a wrong answer to this question,” Murphy says.

“Yeah,” Clarke says. “It was nice. The wah pedal was really smooth, as well.”

Emori nods. “Vox.”

“Oh, cool.” Clarke bites her lip. “I, uh, I used to use a Dunlop Crybaby.”

“Their Volume X pedals are pretty sick, too. You got a strat?”

“No, a Teisco,” Clarke says, thinking of her first - and favorite - guitar. It’s a sort of shocking shade of electric blue, but her dad gave it to her for her 12th birthday and she never wanted to pick up anything else.

“Vintage,” Emori says, clicking her tongue. “That’s cool.”

Murphy looks between them. “What the fuck are you two talking about.”

“Important business things, honey, you wouldn’t understand,” Emori says, patting him on the head.

“I’ll just get started on dinner, then, shall I,” he says, taking a sip of whatever concoction in his cup.

“Just don’t burn the fucking roast again.”

Clarke feels her phone buzz in her pocket, and when she looks at it, it’s Kane calling her.

“I’ll be right back,” she tells them, and then ducks outside to answer her phone.

“Clarke?” Kane says loudly into the receiver, the way he always does at the start of a call - he’s like a grandad with better business acumen.

“Hi,” she says, wincing a little as she braces herself for this conversation. “So - how bad is it?”

As it turns out, things aren’t as dire as Clarke had originally assumed. Bellamy’s management team aren’t _thrilled_ at the development, but apparently he’s taken full responsibility for the incident, so they can’t exactly blame Clarke for any of it. It’s nice to know her job is safe, but really, she thinks it’d be better if they all just agreed to call this all off. There’ll be other jobs, other musicians who aren’t so weirdly fixated on ruining her life and career, and even if there aren’t - Clarke really doesn’t know if she can handle the rest of this tour. She tells Kane this, and, in true Kane fashion, he tells her to just hang in there, that now she’s proved herself, it should be easier for her to connect with Bellamy - she can’t stop herself from audibly snorting at that, it’s just so ridiculous - and get this book written. He tries to turn the whole situation into incentive for Clarke to double down on writing this book, that she has leverage over Bellamy, now, but - that’s not how Clarke wants to win. In fact, she doesn’t want to win in the first place, doesn’t want her writing or this experience to be overshadowed by some childish competition. It should be about her and Bellamy collaborating, working together to create something honest and eloquent, but he’s made it clear he’s not open to any part of that, has demonstrated exactly how far he’s willing to go to try and get rid of her.

Another bright side, Kane says, is that Clarke’s new following will create excellent hype for the book, but Anya doesn’t want anyone to know that Clarke’s writing the book, just yet, because she’s concerned about how media speculation might influence ‘Bellamy’s narrative’; people are mostly just assuming Clarke’s writing an article on Bellamy, given her job at the magazine and her previous work, which is fine with Anya, apparently. They all do manage to agree on the fact that she should probably make a comment on the situation; Bellamy is apparently supposed to be tweeting something once he wakes up, even though he doesn’t even run his own account, usually, so Kane says Clarke should follow suit.

“Just say you’re honoured to have played with them and add something about enjoying the tour,” he says.

“Nobody’s going to believe that,” Clarke points. “Have you seen what people are saying?”

Kane huffs. “Of course I have. They’re keeping me up at night. But nobody can prove anything unless you say it, so, just don’t feed into the rumor mill and it’ll die down.”

They finish the call and Clarke heads back inside to finish her now-lukewarm mocha and draft an appropriate tweet while Emori and Murphy read sections of the newspaper in silence. Apparently Bellamy’s awake, because he’s sent out a tweet in the last few minutes:

_Big shoutout to @cgriffin for joining us so last minute during yesterday’s show! We had some mix-ups w the equip but she handled it like a true professional x B_

It’s already been retweeted by his label and Miller, who’s added ‘ _A legend in the making’._ She bristles a little at Bellamy foisting the blame onto the equipment, of all things, but it’s not like he can really say _I tried and failed to sabotage her as part of my revenge plan_ , so she retweets it and adds a reply:

_Replying to @BellBlake @justmiller_ _  
_ _Thanks for having me! Such a honour to share a stage with you guys x_

She scrolls down a little to look at the other replies, and the first one she sees reads:

_Replying to @BellBlake_ _  
_ _‘mix-ups w the equip’ Lol ok….._

And then the next one:

_Replying to @BellBlake_ _  
_ _Not buying it. You looked like you wanted to either kill her or fuck her. Maybe both_

She turns off her mobile data and slams her phone on the table.

Murphy looks at her, lowering his newspaper.

“Fucking Twitter,” she says in explanation.

“Fucking Twitter,” he agrees.

~ ~ ~

Despite her best efforts to avoid him, Bellamy manages to find Clarke before soundcheck. She’s reading _Manufacturing Consent_ in the bus kitchen, which is completely empty even though 1pm is designated feeding time for most of the band and crew. He must have asked everyone to give them some space, which irritates her, for some reason, makes her feel cornered.

“So,” Bellamy says. “I fucked up.”

Clarke doesn’t even look up from the book. He’s not worth the energy.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Did Anya tell you to do this?” she asks, still not looking up.

“No,” he says reflexively, but it’s such an obvious lie that even he doesn’t bother to maintain it. “Yes. Plus Miller and Emori and - my sister, actually.”

“I thought you two weren’t speaking,” Clarke says, chancing a glance at him.

He looks at her sharply. “Who told you that?”

“Nobody. It’s just obvious that something’s happened to make you act like this, and she left recently, so. I connected the dots.”

“Nice investigating,” he says.

“Well, you know, that’s what we journalists are known for,” Clarke says. “Amongst other things.”

Bellamy puts his hands on his hips, appears to be wrestling with something for a moment. Finally, he sits down opposite her, just like that first day they’d met, slumping in his seat.

“Noam Chomsky, huh?” he says, which is - not where she expected the conversation to go.

“Yep.”

“He’s good,” Bellamy says.

“I know. That’s why I’m reading his book.”

He fidgets a little, and - is that a _blush_?

“I _am_ sorry,” he says slowly, carefully.

“I don’t want an apology from you if you don’t mean it,” she says. “I’m serious. If you’re gonna be an asshole, be honest about it.”

“I am,” he says.

“An asshole? I know.”

“Sorry.”

She puts the book down, considers him. It would be weird of him to start hiding his true feelings about her now - he hasn’t made any effort so far to hide his mistrust of her. She’s sort of inclined to believe him, strangely enough, but she’s not sure whether to trust that instinct or not.

“What did you think would happen?” she asks. “I’d be so humiliated I’d have to leave?”

He flushes again, deep red creeping up his neck. “I - yeah, I guess.”

“Well,” she says. “It was a good plan, in theory.”

“Clarke, I really need you to understand that I - I mean what I’m saying,” he says. “I was an idiot, I wasn’t thinking about the consequences, really, I just had my own stupid vendetta because I’ve had - well. It doesn’t matter, that’s my own shit, and I took it out on you because I was pissed off about this arrangement, and about my privacy being invaded-”

“I _told_ you, I didn’t mean to look at your fucking lyrics -”

“I wasn’t talking about that,” he says. “I just - I never wanted any of this, this whole book thing.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Yeah, you haven’t really been subtle about that.”

“And you were right, about my public image, so - Anya forced my hand, and now I’m supposed to just tell you all about my stupid, fucked up life so people will feel sorry for me, and - I don’t want that. I don’t care if people hate me, I’d rather that than having people feel obligated to pity me. But that’s my own shit to deal with and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

Clarke stares at him.

“No,” she says finally. “You shouldn’t have. But… I get that this is a shitty situation for you. And I don’t feel good about that. Honestly, I don’t want to write this book any more than you want it written. But we both agreed to this. I can’t break my contract unless you break it first, and I doubt you’re willing to go up against Anya.”

Bellamy winces. “Yeah, not really.”

“Okay, so. This is where we’re at. I’m going to keep writing, and I’ll do my best to make it as vague as I can manage. Unlike you, I’m not setting out to ruin anyone’s life. But you have to meet me halfway here. And stop being a fucking _asshole_ to me like I’m the one who forced you into this, because I’m not. Okay?”

She watches his jaw work, clenching and unclenching.

“Okay, yeah,” he says. “Thank you. Seriously. I would’ve understood if you’d just left, honestly.”

“I wanted to,” she says, “but like I said - can’t break my contract.”

He looks at her from under his lashes, and something about the look in his eyes makes her heart seize, just for a second. “Clarke. If you want to leave, I’ll make that happen, okay? I’ll take full responsibility, you can claim harassment or - just.” He sighs. “Don’t stay unless you wanna be here. I’m not - I don’t wanna do that to you.”

“You try to humiliate me in front of 15,000 people, that’s fair game,” she says, “but you’ll take the fall with your team so I don’t have to stay, because, what - _that’s_ the line you won’t cross? Either you’re a fucking weirdo or you really want me to leave this tour.”

He laughs, and the sound surprises her. It’s warm, pleasant. “Definitely the former.” A beat. “I don’t think me taking blame for something I actually did can technically be classified as ‘taking the fall’, though.”

She nods, raising her eyebrows. “Probably not.”

“Okay,” he says, sliding out of the booth to stand up. “Thank you for - just talking to me, even. If you decide you want out, let me know. I’m serious.”

“I’ll think about it,” Clarke says.

He nods, sticks his hands in his pockets awkwardly. She tries to imagine what he was like as a teenager, back before his career took off, when he was just a kid from Boston trying to make money off DIY shows in people’s living rooms and backyards and parking lots, recording demos on his phone - not that she knows for sure that that’s what he was doing, that’s just how she tends to picture it. Nobody really knows who Bellamy was before he was _The Bellamy Blake_ , but for the first time since that first Skype call, Clarke wants to find out. There’s no way she’s leaving this tour yet, she realises.

But he doesn’t need to know that.

“I should probably get to soundcheck,” he says. She nods, picks her book back up. “Oh, by the way - I know you’re probably already aware, you don’t need me telling you, but. You were amazing last night.”

He’s gone before she can say anything.

It’s probably for the best, given how dry her mouth is all of a sudden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every1 should read noam chomsky. also i have a tumblr i rarely use [here](https://warriorqueenclarke.tumblr.com/) if ur interested! this is what people do right!! link to their blogs??? i don't know im just a big adult baby and the internet is a mystery to me


	5. Chapter 5

**JUNE - SWEDEN**

After Amsterdam, things are - different.

For one, people are actually talking to her now, which is helpful, although Bellamy remains distant. It’s an awkward, polite kind of distance now, not cold or hostile. It’s exactly what she wanted, and entirely dissatisfying. This is what she _wanted_ , to just enjoy Europe, maybe make a couple of friends, and write a passable memoir without having to talk too much to its subject, but now that it’s happening, she’s just frustrated. He’s quiet and restrained and evasive, exactly the opposite of what a rock star should be, and her writer’s block has gotten worse, which she didn’t think was possible.

As as result, she spends most of her time holed up in the kitchen staring blankly at her laptop. She’s done more work curating her Spotify playlists than she has on the book, though it’s not for lack of trying. It’s so quiet, as well, which isn’t something that could normally be said of a tour bus. Clearly everybody has a lot more going on than her, because she’s the only person in there, most of the time, save for post-show food rushes and 2pm breakfasts.

One evening, on the road between stops, Bellamy strides in, moleskin in hand, and stops in front of the table, shifting from foot to foot. He’d almost look nervous, if it weren’t for the frown.

“Hey,” Clarke says, when he doesn’t move or say anything.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” he asks.

“Uh, no,” Clarke says, unsure of why he’s even asking in the first place.

“I would use the living room, but they’re playing video games,” he says with the glower of a 76 year old man. She has so many questions about him.

“It’s fine, seriously,” she says. “You know this is _your_ tour bus, right? You don’t have to ask me permission to be in here.”

“It’s not just mine,” he says. “It’s everyone’s. And I don’t want to impose.”

“You’re really not.”

He grunts and sits, hunched over his notebook, and doesn’t say anything else, so Clarke returns her attention to the computer. She wants to ask if he’s writing new songs, how the process is going, but after their last discussion about his lyrics, she’s not so sure that’s a good idea. So, they just sit like that for a while, both quietly working - or not working, really, because Clarke’s still blocked and Bellamy seems to be as well, from the way he’s glaring holes in his paper - until a dull pain starts in Clarke’s head and she has to lower her laptop screen a little to rub at her temples.

Bellamy glances up at her.

“You okay?” he asks after a moment, gruff.

“Yeah,” she says. “Just a bit of a headache.”

He looks like he wants to say something to that, but he holds himself back, and she’s not about to ask, so she just closes her eyes in search of some relief. She can hear that he’s tapping the table with his pen, seemingly frustrated. She thinks it might be a genuine hardship for him, this whole ‘playing nice’ thing. It appears to be taking a physical toll on him.

“Do you ever drink water?” Bellamy asks finally, and when she opens her eyes, the beginnings of a glare have begun imposing on his features.

“I’ve been known to,” she says slowly.

“I’m serious,” he says. “Your body can’t function right if you’re dehydrated all the time. That’s why you’ve got a headache.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, a little offended at the implication she doesn’t know how to take care of herself. “I drink water, Bellamy.”

He glares harder. “You drink coffee, it’s not the same thing.”

“Coffee’s, like, 90 percent water,” Clarke argues.

He storms off, which seems like a disproportionate reaction to the conversation, and she chalks it up as him being in another one of his weird moods, takes a tylenol (and stubbornly swallows it dry, unwilling to get a glass of water and prove him right) and keeps working until he comes back almost a full hour later with a reusable metal water bottle and forces it into her hands.

“There,” he says. “You should be having five of those a day, at least.”

Clarke turns the bottle over, feels the weight and knows that he’s filled it up for her already. Her name is carved into the side.

“Was this premade or something?” she asks. “Did you just have it the whole time?”

“No, I did it myself,” Bellamy says, like it’s obvious.

Clarke gawks.

“Don’t lose it,” he says, and leaves.

Clarke sits there for a moment, trying to process what just happened. She pulls out her phone and takes a photo to send to Raven.

_Bellamy just inexplicably gave me this after yelling at me for being dehydrated_

Her phone buzzes with a response a minute later.

_he’s right u should drink more water_

_Is that really your main takeaway here?_

_have we not already established bellamy has a weird angry boner for u_

_He hand-engraved it_

_In an hour_

_Doesn’t it take longer than that to engrave things_

_ok that is weird but still in keeping with the angry boner theory_

_also depends on what kind of equipment he has w him_

_What kind of guy carries ENGRAVING EQUIPMENT on tour with him_

_ur kind of guy griffin_

_also cant believe u just ignored that double entendre_

_You’re astoundingly unhelpful_

_as long as im still astounding_

 

Clarke huffs, pockets her phone, and stares down the water bottle.

~ ~ ~

That night, Clarke stands sidestage as always and watches quietly. For the encore, Bellamy returns to stage alone to perform a pulled back version of _Saintlike_ , guitar wailing.

“Hey Griffin, you coming out tonight?”

Emori has materialised beside her (she doesn’t seem to actually walk from place to place, she just kind of… _is_ somewhere one moment and then isn’t the next) picking at the dirt under her nails with a switchblade. So, business as usual.

“Uh, I wasn’t planning on it,” Clarke says.

“You should,” says Harper, a few feet away. She smiles a little too wide, and Clarke gets the sense that she’s still feeling guilty over the freeze-out. “We don’t have to be on the road until Sunday morning, so you’ll have time to recover, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

It’s not that Clarke’s worried about the hangover, exactly, but more about getting too drunk and very possibly embarrassing herself in front of people she has to live with for the next two months. She’s only just started wearing jeans around them.

“I’ll think about it,” she says, returning Harper’s smile. Really, what she should be doing tonight is writing; she still has very little actual substance in the book, and her time on tour is slipping away faster than she’d expected.

Onstage, Bellamy is singing: _Sheet white and close to death, I feel saintlike, teeth closing on my neck, and it’s saintlike, saintlike, saintlike_.

Emori’s frowning as she watches, Clarke notices.

“Something wrong?” Clarke asks. He sounds great to her, if a little rough, but that’s to be expected - it’s been a packed week and this is his third show in as many days.

“He’s still off,” Emori says.

“Like off-key?”

“No, ‘course not.”

She doesn’t elaborate, and Clarke doesn’t get a chance to ask what she means, because Bellamy finishes and the roar of the crowd fills the air, overtaking their conversation. It doesn’t fully settle until he’s offstage, wiping his face with a towel and chugging from his water bottle. Clarke notices it looks like the one he gave her, wonders if he gives them to everyone. When he comes past, Harper claps him on the back in congratulations, and he just grimaces, like the crowd wasn’t just going absolutely wild for him.

“Clarke’s coming out,” Emori says, which isn’t really reflective of the conclusion they’d come to as a group. Bellamy looks at Clarke, nods tightly with a polite smile, and stalks off. He’s clearly upset about something, but she’s not convinced it’s to do with her, necessarily, unless he’s somehow still irritated about her tendency towards dehydration, which would be dramatic and… kind of on brand, at this point.

Still, Emori clearly won’t say a word about it, and Clarke doesn’t really want to snoop by interrogating his friends, so for the moment, she leaves it behind. Before she heads out with the rest of the gang, she throws a jacket over her singlet, uninterested in putting on makeup or heels right now. They end up at a bar within walking distance of the hotel, supposedly for safety reasons. It’s pretty douchey, honestly, and not really in keeping with the style of the band, in Clarke’s mind, but it’s open and mostly clean, and there are enough people that they can blend into the crowd but not so many that it’s too crowded.

They get a private booth, and Murphy and Emori immediately disappear to get the first round, while Jasper and Harper hit the dancefloor, leaving Clarke with a still-stewing Bellamy and the eversilent Miller.

She pulls out her special water bottle, which she filled and brought specially, and shakes it at Bellamy a little, tries for a grin. He smiles back, but it’s the same small, tight one from before - it’s more of a wince than anything.

Resisting the urge to browse her phone - she’s deleted social media for the moment anyway, so there’s nothing to look at it - Clarke sips at the water diligently until Murphy and Emori return with shots, which she eagerly accepts. Bellamy doesn’t want one, so she takes his as well, slamming it back fast enough that it never hits her tongue. When Murphy stares, she raises an eyebrow, questioning.

“That’s fucking fireball,” he says. “You didn’t even wince.”

Clarke shrugs. “I have a high pain tolerance.”

“That’s metal,” Jasper, who’s apparently been drawn back to the table by the promise of alcohol, says, and then chokes on his own shot. Clarke thumps him on the back, grinning, and then pulls him back to the dancefloor. It only takes half a song for the sweet, pleasant buzz of the drink to settle in her stomach, and it’s enough to keep her out there for another three song, until she considers the alternative of more drinks and abandons her post, to Jasper’s dismay.

“I’ll be right back,” she says, which, as a promise, doesn’t really hold a lot of weight when she’s tipsy. She orders a rum and coke, a beer for Miller, and, on a whim, a screwdriver for Bellamy. When she returns to the table with the drinks, she hears the tailend of their conversation.

“Bellamy,” Miller’s saying, “c’mon. Don’t do this.”

“I’m not,” Bellamy says.

“ _She’s_ the one who-”

“Miller,” Bellamy says, voice low and dangerous. “Drop it.”

Clarke sets the drinks down, tries to act like she didn’t hear any of it. Miller accepts it with thanks, but Bellamy just stares at his drink.

“A screwdriver,” he says.

“Sorry, I didn’t know what you’d want,” she says. “We can swap, if you want.”

“He likes screwdrivers,” Miller says, waving her off.

“Oh, cool,” Clarke says. She’s feeling confident, now. “What’s your drink of choice, though? For next time?”

“Vodka tonic,” Bellamy says.

Clarke snorts. “Very rock ‘n’ roll.”

“I like them,” he shoots back.

Clarke raises her hands. “Nothing wrong with that. I was just joking.”

He rolls his shoulders, straightens.

“Sorry,” he says.

“You don’t have to, like, apologise for everything, y’know,” Clarke says.

He doesn’t say anything, just stares at the table, so Clarke busies herself with finishing her drink.

“Going hard tonight, Griffin,” Miller says.

Clarke grins in response.

“Have you eaten?” Bellamy asks.

“I had something before the show,” she says. She grabs her abandoned water bottle and takes a swig. “And look, hydration!”

“You should eat something,” he says.

“I’m fine, mom,” she says, and he jerks back a little. God, she was _joking_ , what is it with the people on this tour?

“So, how’s the writing going?” Miller asks, clearly trying to change the subject.

Clarke looks at him, and it takes her a second to properly hear him, which might not be helping her case with Bellamy.

“Fine,” she says, a little too loudly and adjusts her volume accordingly. “It’s - I don’t know, it’s fine. I’m sort of blocked.”

“Ah,” Miller says.

“I probably shouldn’t be saying this around my other boss,” Clarke says, more to herself than to Miller.

“I’m not your boss,” Bellamy says.

“You basically are,” she says. “But. I don’t know, it’s my job, and I know how you guys feel about what I do, but - I care about it.”

“I thought you wanted to break your contract,” he says.

“That was because of you,” she says. “Not - jesus, not like that. Uh. I mean, because of what happened. Hostile work environment.”

Bellamy swallows visibly. He still hasn’t touched his drink. “I know. I’m an asshole, and I’m-”

“I swear to god, dude,” she interrupts. “Stop apologising to me. It’s really ruining your image, all this remorse. You’d be easier to write about if you actually were an asshole.”

“He is,” Miller says.

“Nah,” Clarke says. “I mean. Yeah, he is. But not in the traditional sense.”

“What’s the traditional sense?” Bellamy asks. He seems sort of amused, now.

“Like - I don’t know. My ex used me to cheat on his girlfriend and then said it was okay because I was his soulmate.” Clarke registers, vaguely, that this is perhaps not the kind of thing to be sharing with her boss, even if he doesn’t think he is, in fact, her boss. “ _That’s_ actually assholery. Assholery? Is that the - whatever. But you don’t actually have, like, selfish intentions. I don’t think. I can’t really get a read of you yet, honestly, but - all these people are loyal to you. You must be doing something right.” A beat. “Or you’re just paying them really well. Both, maybe.”

Miller’s smiling, which is a nice look on him, Clarke thinks. Bellamy’s looking at her kind of funny, but that’s not really new, per se.

“You need something to eat,” he says suddenly.

Clarke splutters. “I’m not _that-_ ”

“Any dietary requirements?” he asks.

She blinks.

“I’m lactose intolerant,” she says eventually. He nods, and then slides out of the booth.

Clarke stares after him.

“Is he always like this?” she asks Miller.

“It depends on the person,” he says. “But usually, yeah.”

“But - he does these for everybody, I assume?” she says, holding up her water bottle.

“Oh, yeah,” Miller says, and for some reason, it’s disappointing to hear. She slumps a little, steals a sip of Bellamy’s screwdriver out of revenge for - well, she’s not sure, exactly, but she’s irritated with him for some reason, so she’s following the instinct.

“What do you mean,” she says, “by ‘it depends on the person’?”

All of a sudden, Miller looks uncomfortable, and he busies himself swivelling his beer around on the spot, leg jiggling under the table.

“He can be… overprotective, when it comes to some people,” Miller says.

“Overprotective how?”

He looks at her, unimpressed. “Come on. What is he doing right this minute?”

“He’d do that for anyone,” she says, though she doesn’t know for sure. But it’s a fair assumption.

“Bugging you about staying hydrated,” Miller says, ticking off a finger, “forcibly making you eat, making sure nobody interrupts you when you’re working-”

“Wait, what?” Clarke says.

“Why do you think we’re never in the kitchen?”

She splutters. “I just thought you guys had better shit to do!”

“We really don’t,” Miller snorts. “But he was so bent on making things right after - well, after that stupid move he pulled, so. We’re also not supposed to stay out too late in case we wake you up when we come home.”

“Oh, my god,” Clarke says, burying her face in her hands. “That’s fucking _mortifying_.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“He thinks I’m some, like, delicate flower that’ll quit if she doesn’t get eight hours every night-”

“He really doesn’t,” Miller says. “This is just how he acts. It was the same with O.”

Clarke scrunches her nose for a second, trying to remember who that is and then -

“His sister,” she says. Miller nods, but he’s not meeting her gaze, like maybe he thinks he wasn’t supposed to bring that up. “He’s treating me like - his _sister_.”

Miller sort of half shrugs, and again, Clarke feels disappointment settle in her stomach. That’s just _excellent_ , really, her hot, talented boss is treating her like a familial relation. She doesn’t really know why she cares, honestly, but it’s the principle of the thing - like she’s not mature enough to take care of herself, like he doesn’t see her as an equal but as something to be protected or doted on, not even strong enough for him to argue with anymore for fear of fucking breaking her.

Bellamy returns, then, sets a tray of something hot and steaming in front of her.

“Pizza,” Bellamy says. “With vegan cheese.”

“Awesome,” Clarke says dully.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! work and uni have been kicking my ass a little but i hope you enjoy this update! we are entering into a sub-plot that some people may not entirely enjoy as it involves a bit of clexa, but it won't take up a whole lot of screentime (or whatever the written equivalent to screentime is... pagespace?) and it serves a purpose so! yeah! let's not be dicks. altho tbh i'm still mad about how racist that character design was lol. @jroth atone for your sins

**JULY - SPAIN**

Clarke’s sitting on the stoop of the bus, eyes closed against the rays of the Barcelona sun. It’s hectic in the venue as they set up - there’s been an equipment mix up and the crew are scrambling to sort it out - and she was just getting in everybody’s way, so she’s enjoying a few moments of peace and quiet before the show starts.

She doesn’t register that somebody else is present until the soft red glow that’s hitting her eyelids goes dark. When she opens her eyes, Lexa’s standing there in her gym gear, looking perfectly tanned and dewy without even a drop of makeup on.

“Hey,” Clarke says, shifting over to make room for her. Lexa sits next to her, nestled kind of close considering they’ve barely spoken.

“Nice day,” Lexa says. Clarke nods.

“Did they sort everything out in there, with the missing amp?” she asks.

Lexa shrugs. “I don’t know. Probably.”

“You weren’t at soundcheck?”

“We don’t really do soundcheck,” Lexa says. “Messes with the flow of the live performance. Besides, we play the songs so often it’s like second nature now.”

“Do you ever get sick of it?” Clarke asks.

“Parts of it,” Lexa says. “But not enough to make me give it up.”

Clarke nods.

“How’s your novel coming?” Lexa asks, stretching her legs out.

“It’s fine,” Clarke says. “I’m not as stuck right now, but I need more facetime with Bellamy.”

“Ask for it,” Lexa says. “I’m sure he’ll give it to you.”

Clarke doesn’t want to admit that she’s been avoiding him a little, half because she doesn’t want to throw him further off his game while he works through whatever it is he’s working through, and half because she still doesn’t know how to feel about what Miller told her in Sweden.

“How do you find him?” she asks instead. “As a - coworker’s probably not the right word, but…”

“He’s talented,” Lexa says. “But I don’t think he pushes himself as much as he should, because he knows he can get away with releasing anything to that crowd.”

“What crowd?” Clarke asks.

Lexa waves her hand. “Fangirls. They’re here for his image, because he’s cute and edgy.”

Clarke fidgets a little in her spot. She probably doesn’t know Lexa well enough to get into an argument about this, and she doesn’t want to screw her chances of hooking up with her either, but the sentiment really bugs her a lot. She’s literally written essays about why that attitude bugs her.

“I don’t think that’s necessarily fair,” she says carefully. Lexa arches an eyebrow, but she doesn’t look angry, just curious. “To dismiss his career, or an entire population of listeners, just based off of a stereotype. Just because some of his fans are young women, doesn’t mean he’s not a serious artist. And it doesn’t mean they’re not serious consumers.”

“Fair enough,” Lexa says after a moment’s pause. “That was poorly worded. I do wonder why you’re defending him, though, after that incident in Germany.”

“Everyone’s really stuck on that,” Clarke observes.

“I assumed you would be too,” Lexa says. “But apparently not.”

Clarke huffs. “It was stupid, but… it’s been established that it was stupid. There’s no point in holding a grudge that’s only going to hurt me and hinder my ability to work.”

“How very zen,” Lexa says. “And have you figured out how you’re going to spin the sister thing?”

That gives her pause, and she considers just going along with it, but - this isn’t how she wants to find out, not when it’s clearly something that’s been eating at Bellamy for a while. She can wait until he tells her the truth, or whatever version of the truth he wants her to know.

“I don’t actually know anything about Octavia, really,” Clarke says. “Apart from what the rest of the world knows.”

“Ah,” Lexa says. “I won’t spoil the ending, then. But let’s just say talent isn’t the only thing that runs in that family.”

Clarke doesn’t bite, though she’s sure Lexa would give in if she asked nicely enough.

“So, what’re you up to until the show starts?” she asks instead.

Lexa smirks.

~ ~ ~

By the time they reach Madrid, Bellamy seems to have his energy back and the whole tour is better for it - even the stagehands seem happier, whistling the melody of a different late 80’s pop hit every day (Jasper tends to be on DJ duty in the crew bus and he’s going through a phase right now, leaning heavily on Prince and Madonna). The show is one of their best in a while, the energy of the crowd feeding into the performance and vice versa. Clarke ventures out into the VIP area for the second half, wants to get a different experience, but it’s filled with - well, the kind of people you’d expect in a VIP area. It’s all snooty executives who don’t appreciate the kind of experience they’re getting, so she ends up going backstage again before the encore. It’s a slightly worse view, but it’s worth it.

The next day, Harper and Jasper decide they’re going to the hot springs to celebrate. They have another day off to recuperate, and supposedly the steam is good for both stress _and_ Bellamy’s vocal chords. Clarke elects to come along, if only because she’s never been to a hot springs before.

Jasper knows a secluded spot that only locals know about, supposedly (although she’s heard that claim a lot from many a travel blog), so he, Harper, Miller, Murphy, Emori, Clarke, and a mildly reluctant Bellamy pack up one of the cars the label has hired with some towels, bathers, and a cooler full of food and ciders, and hit the road. None of the Grounders come, though Clarke invites them, and she wonders if the concept of hot springs somehow conflicts with one of their many lifestyle choices.

Bellamy drives, because supposedly he doesn’t trust anybody but Miller to drive, and Miller doesn’t have his licence.

“I’m just doing my part to fulfil gay stereotypes,” he says when Clarke asks.

Emori’s on DJ duty for the drive there, which Jasper only submits to after a promise that he’ll get the honour on the drive back. Emori’s musical interests apparently include a lot of experimental noise stuff and world music - at one point Clarke realises that an actual Gregorian chant is playing - with the occasional burst of psychedelic funk. It’s surprising, whilst somehow also being exactly what Clarke would have expected from her.

The springs are beautiful, and just as private as Jasper promised - there’s only one other couple there, and they mostly just make out and keep to themselves. Clarke didn’t pack a bathing suit before she came on tour; she didn’t really think she’d need one, which was maybe an oversight. Murphy and Emori both just go nude and invite her to join them, but Clarke’s not quite feeling _that_ comfortable around them yet, so she strips to her underwear and decides that’ll have to. She also very decidedly does _not_ look at Bellamy in his bathing suit. She’s seen him shirtless a few times already - he apparently has some kind of vendetta against pajamas and just sleeps in his underwear, and they’re effectively living together, it’s bound to occur - but not when he’s soaked in water and lit by the glow of the sun. It’s a little too much for her - a lot, in fact - so she just focuses on the soothing feel of the water and Jasper’s litany of stories from the road, some of which are just too crazy to _not_ be true.

The hours float by, and they’re packing up to go all too soon. Clarke could maybe sleep here, honestly, but they have to be back in the bus before 8 so they can hit the road at 9, and it’s a good ninety minute drive back to the venue.

“I think I’m gonna melt into my seat,” Clarke says once they’re in the car, swaddled in towels and t-shirts rendered damp by their still-wet bathing suits.

“That’s the power of the hot springs, baby,” Murphy says.

“Don’t call people ‘baby’, Murphy, you sound like someone’s creepy uncle,” Miller says.

“All part of my charm.”

“Jasper, would you please put on some music so I don’t have to listen to this,” Bellamy says.

“Oh, duh!” Jasper says, leaning forward between Bellamy and Miller in the front seat to reach for his phone and excitedly scroll through his library. “Okay, what playlist are we thinking, gang? Slow chill, night time chill, melancholy chill?”

“Why do so many of them end in chill?” Harper asks.

“It’s the most direct way to communicate he smokes pot,” Clarke says. “Y’know, if the themed memorabilia doesn’t do the job.”

“My weed socks are actually really comfortable,” Jasper says thoughtfully, making a selection and then returning to his seat once he’s passed the phone back to Bellamy.

Conversation lulls as the speakers fill with soft dream pop. Clarke drifts in and out of consciousness, vaguely registering Slowdive and Field Mouse and a softer FKA Twigs track at different points in the trip.

Jasper nudges her awake a little later to see the sunset as it spills over the horizon, saturating the air with reds and oranges. There’s a stretch of mostly empty road ahead, and Harper is quietly snoring, head resting on Emori’s shoulder. As Clarke listens to the Blonde Redhead track fade out, she thinks that this might be as close to a perfect moment as life gets, when it comes down to it.

She’s so caught up in it she doesn’t register what song comes on next until about thirty seconds in. Panic settles low in her belly and she reaches over to clutch Jasper’s arm, because - that’s _her_ fucking song playing. He looks over at her, confused.

“Jasper,” Clarke hisses lowly, and understanding dawns on his face.

“Hey, Miller,” he says, a futile attempt at sounding casual, “could you pass me my phone?”

“In a second,” Miller says.

“I just need it really quickly,” Jasper says.

“Are you gonna get fascist with your track skipping?” Miller asks.

“This one’s just not that good,” Jasper tries, and Miller and Murphy groan in unison. Clearly this has been an issue in the past.

“I want to hear the rest of it,” Bellamy says, and Clarke’s head snaps up to look at him.

“Seriously, just pass me the phone, I’ll put on something better.”

Clarke’s vocals have already kicked in, stylistically distorted but still very much her, as she sings _every prayer you read just makes me bleed_ over and over, the drone and beat drifting in slowly beneath the layers of harmonisation. She thinks maybe it’s so warped by production that she can get away with it - the track’s an opener, only two minutes long, if she remembers correctly - but then she feels eyes on her, and when she looks in the rearview mirror, Bellamy’s gazing back at her, eyes swimming with a whole host of things she can’t even begin to decipher. She looks back at him, wondering if he can read her better than she can read him, feeling her chest start to close in a little.

“Hey, who is this?” Murphy asks. “It’s fuckin’ sick.”

“I’ll check,” Miller says, reaching for the phone. Clarke wants to say something, reach out, but - what can she feasibly do, at this point?

“Miller,” Bellamy says, a warning.

“ _Wounded Deer_ ,” Miller’s saying, “by - huh.” He stops, turns around to face her. “Is there another Clarke Griffin that you know of?”

Clarke opens and closes her mouth a couple times, dumbly. “No,” she says finally. There’s no use lying, really.

“Oh,” Miller says. In the background, the track finishes.

“Did I miss something?” Murphy asks.

“That song was Clarke’s,” Emori says.

Clarke looks at her hands, presses her nails into her palms.

“Oh,” Murphy says. A beat. “Cool song, Clarke.”

“Thanks,” she croaks, mostly out of reflexive politeness, the manners drilled into her by her mother kicking in subconsciously.

Murphy looks around. “So, are we gonna... _talk_ about the fact that Clarke apparently has an album that Jasper somehow knows about, or is this one of those things where we all lapse into uncomfortable silence and pretend nothing happened so Bellamy doesn’t yell at us later?”

The car goes quiet save for the low hum of whatever’s next on Jasper’s playlist and the rattle of the car as it travels along the increasingly bumpy road.

“Uncomfortable silence, then,” Murphy says, barely flinching when Emori jabs him with her elbow.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Clarke says, mostly to convince herself so her heart stops racing. “I released it a long time ago. Barely anyone heard it.”

“Except Jasper, apparently,” Emori says, turning to him. “I don’t know how you find this shit.”

“‘R/Indieheads’,” Jasper says. “It’s my bible.”

“Fucking Reddit,” Clarke says, mostly without thinking.

“Hey, that’s Bellamy’s line,” Murphy says.

“Reddit’s a cesspool,” Bellamy says. It’s the first thing he’s said in a while, but Clarke can’t really start thinking about what that means until she’s dealt with her current crisis. One thing at a time.

“Reddit has nothing but nice things to say about you,” Jasper says. “Or - well.”

“That’s a sentence that’s just… never going to be true for any person,” Harper says.

“Music forums,” Bellamy spits, seemingly to himself. “Just elitist little caves of the internet where grown men shit on any music that a teenage girl dares to enjoy, like that automatically renders something inauthentic or -”

“I’ve read this sentence twenty-five times,” Miller says dryly.

Clarke’s mouth quirks, despite the circumstance. She kind of wishes Bellamy had been around earlier for her conversation with Lexa.

“It’s actually a really good way to be introduced to new sounds,” Jasper argues. “How else would I have found Clarke’s EP?”

The car goes quiet again. Jasper winces, pats Clarke's shoulder apologetically.

“I’m sick of new sounds,” Clarke says, if only to stop the conversation from stagnating again and move it away from this precarious cliff-edge of a topic. “There should just be three of them, and that’s it.”

“Yeah, that, except Bellamy’s saying it and he’s completely serious,” Murphy says.

“Fuck you, Murphy,” Bellamy says.

“Oh, I love this song.”

“You can’t deny the market’s become oversaturated.”

“Just because you think music starts and ends with _My Bloody Valentine_ -” Jasper says.

“Did I or did I not listen to the entirety of Harry Styles’ album?” Bellamy asks.

“You definitely did, you made us watch the film clip for _Kiwi_ like six times,” Emori says.

“I stand by him on that video,” Harper says. “It has kids, dogs, _and_ cake. That’s the dream.”

The conversation takes off again, and nobody mentions the song again, either out of politeness or disinterest, and eventually Clarke is able to calm down again, push the moment from her mind, block out the memories starting to tap at the window of her brain. Except -

Bellamy.

Clarke hasn’t really stopped looking at him, and every now and then, he glances back and meets her gaze, to the point where she has to forcibly move her head to remove the temptation. Something else has settled deep in her now; it’s not quite anxiety, just an eerie, almost-pleasant heat, fluttering in her chest, and she can’t sit still the rest of the ride. She just stares out the window at the darkening sky and tries not to think about his eyes on her.

~ ~ ~

They get back and effectively have to pour themselves out of the car - Murphy and Emori help carry Harper to the bus, doing their best not to wake her (although supposedly she sleeps through anything), and Clarke helps Miller and Bellamy bring the towels and other gear in, each of them moving sluggishly. Jasper volunteers to take their wet or dirty clothes to the hotel for laundry service, and Miller goes back to the car to repark it in its designated spot, leaving Clarke and Bellamy to unpack the cooler and restock the fridge with whatever can be salvaged.

“I know you told me to stop apologising,” Bellamy says as they slowly make their way through the empty cider bottles and reusable tupperware (they’re very eco-friendly, for a band), “so I’m just gonna ask - are you alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” she replies, focusing very hard on determining whether these sandwiches have gone bad.

“Clarke,” Bellamy says. There’s such sincerity and concern in his voice, it makes her freeze a little. She doesn’t know how or why he has such capacity to care for somebody he barely knows, barely _likes_ , by all appearances. “I saw you in the car. You might have fooled everyone else, but-”

“Really,” she says. “It was - okay, I was freaking out for a second, but. It’s fine now.”

When she looks at him, he’s staring at her hard.

“You don’t have to be fine all the time, you know,” he says eventually.

She swallows against the lump in her throat, tries to dislodge it and fails, so she just nods. They keep packing for a while, quiet.

“You’re not going to ask about the EP,” she says. It’s not a question.

“I figured if you wanted us to know, you would have told us,” Bellamy says. “Plus, the way you froze when it came on… you didn’t seem thrilled, exactly.” A pause. “I should probably warn you, other people are going to try to find it. Murphy’s probably already googling.”

“He won’t find anything,” Clarke says. “I took it down ages ago.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Bellamy says, and she looks at him. “Otherwise it would’ve come up when I -”

He stops, reddens. The color hits against his freckles, the way it does when he’s finished a set, chest heaving, the curls of his hair sticking to his forehead.

“You googled me,” Clarke says instead of following that rabbit hole of a thought.

“Well - yes,” he says, annoyed. “You googled me too.”

“Yeah, because I’m writing a book about you,” Clarke says, giggling.

“Maybe I’m writing a book about you,” he shoots back.

She’s laughing properly now. “Is that a threat or a comeback?”

“It’s not - Clarke,” Bellamy says, glaring at her as he shuts the fridge door with a thump. “Stop it.”

“I’m sorry, I just - did you think that through at all?”

“Obviously I didn’t.”

She doubles over. “ _Obviously_.”

Miller comes in, Jasper on his heels, and stops when he sees the two of them, Bellamy glowering despite the blush that’s still flirting with the tips of his ears, Clarke bracing herself against the counter for support as she guffaws.

“Uh,” Miller says. “Did we miss something? Possibly something involving illicit substances?”

“He’s writing a book about me,” Clarke says, and saying the words out loud only makes it worse.

“Could’ve sworn it was the other way around,” Miller says.

“Ooh, freaky friday,” Jasper says. He nudges Miller. “Can we switch next?”

“I’d literally rather die.”

“How did you think that was a good comeback?” Clarke asks.

“Whatever,” Bellamy scowls. “Don’t know why _I’ve_ been branded as the dick, here.”

“Hey,” Clarke says, sobering up. “Please don’t put that in the book. I want to maintain my image.”

Miller and Jasper are still watching, looking unimpressed and confused respectively.

“You might’ve been right about the drugs,” Jasper stage-whispers to Miller.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY this is so late. life has been hectic but rest assured i have not abandoned this story and have no plans to! also this is 3k of bellamy and clarke just talking AGAIN bc as previously stated, that's all i want from them @rothenberg pls come fight me on the altar of justice and just.... let me.... take over.... the show.... everyone will cuddle and get therapy for forty mins every week it'll be a hit

**JULY - NORWAY**

As Bellamy predicted, Murphy is pretty much unabashed about trying to find Clarke’s EP. Bellamy himself has been surprisingly understanding, though, trying to quash all conversations surrounding it (or at least, that’s what he does when she’s in the room), changing the subject or threatening Murphy with an assortment of stories he has about him. Murphy never really seems to be that worried, though, and Clarke wonders if he’s one of those people who doesn’t have the part of his brain that feels shame. It would explain a lot.

The thing is, though, that the prospect of people listening to her music has never really bothered her, until now. She doesn’t know what it is, exactly, but it just feels private, though she fully comprehends the irony of that. It feels like the half-finished scribbles of a fifteen-year-old, which is what it was, really, and the thought of them all listening to it - the thought of _Bellamy_ listening to it, actually, is terrifying. It’s not that she doesn’t trust him, because she’s realised she sort of does. They’ve reached a point of understanding, maybe even friendship, but every interaction is still lined with this bubbling, low level anxiety in her stomach, though it’s not quite severe enough to outweigh the warm, pleasant feeling that accompanies his presence. They come hand in hand, she realises, and she wonders if this is just what it’s like to know him, to be around him.

She’s pondering this one day in the parking lot of their venue in Oslo - it’s strange, really, that she’s now calling it ‘ _their_ venue’ in her head, but there’s a lot about this situation that’s strange - as she stretches out in the sunlight. Bellamy’s there but mostly keeping to himself; he has an acoustic out that he’s fiddling around with, occasionally scribbling in his notebook, which she’s come to realise is a pretty big deal. (Jasper told her that Bellamy didn’t even write around Miller until the _Caligula_ era in 2011, almost four years after they became friends.) He starts slipping into other melodies, some she recognises and some she doesn’t, and she closes her eyes, listens to the gentle pluck of his fingers against the strings. She smiles a little when she hears that iconic bassline of _The Chain_. She starts humming along, despite herself, and she doesn’t think it’s loud enough for him to even hear until he looks over at her and grins. He’s sitting on the steps of the bus, while she lays out on a yoga mat she borrowed from Lexa.

“I was wondering which one would get you,” he says, and she realises that’s why he was switching between so many different songs - he was trying to get her to react, or maybe sing along.

“Surprised it took you this long,” she says.

“It felt a bit obvious,” he says, and she pokes her tongue out at him. She doesn’t know when they got so playful, but she’s not complaining about it, honestly. It’s nice, to have that gentle kind of teasing again. “I’m not having a go at you, honestly. _Rumors_ is still one of my favourite albums.”

“ _Songbird_ is one of the first songs I learnt on piano,” Clarke says.

“When did you start playing?” Bellamy asks. He’s still playing the song, an attempt at being casual, she thinks. He’s trying not to pry, but he’s just so transparent, it’s almost not funny.

“I was 5 when I started piano, and then I taught myself guitar when I was 9,” she says.

“Early start.”

“Yeah,” Clarke says, resting back on her elbows. She considers the weight of her next words carefully, holds them in her mouth a moment before releasing them. “My dad was a sound engineer, actually.”

He’s quiet for a moment, but the quiet strumming continues. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Jake Griffin, I know.”

She glances at him. “You never said anything.”

“I didn’t know how to bring it up. I thought it might still be… I don’t like talking about my mom, y’know, and I figured it’s probably the same for you.”

“You didn’t really seem too concerned with my wellbeing, those first few weeks,” Clarke says, mildly.

“I’m not - ” Bellamy cuts himself off with a huff and puts the guitar down, moves down a step so his feet are on the ground, just a few inches away from the bottom of her mat. “I know I was a dick, but I wasn’t about to use your dead dad as cannon fodder.”

Clarke laughs, surprising herself with the sound, and sits up properly. “Good to know even you have standards of acceptability.”

“Barely,” he says.

“Anyway. Dad was the one who bought me my first guitar, taught how to mix - he actually produced a couple of the songs on the EP.”

“Really?” Bellamy says, frowning. “I feel like I would’ve heard about that.”

“He was listed under a fake name,” she says. “We thought it’d be a bad look. A little too much like nepotism or - he thought people would assume it was all him, which it wasn’t. And it was better that my mother didn’t know we were working together.”

“She didn’t approve?”

“Still doesn’t,” Clarke says, shrugging. “After dad died, she wanted me to go to med school, I wanted to be a music journalist, so she cut me off.”

Bellamy whistles. “Jesus.”

“It’s fine,” she says. “I’m still luckier than most - I had savings. And I got a job pretty quick, mostly because of my connections. It’d be fair to say I hadn’t earned it, at that point.”

“Is that why you stopped playing?” he asks. She notices that he very carefully ignores her comment about connections. “Your mom?”

“That’s part of it, yeah,” Clarke says. “And. Okay, this is about to get really, like Disney Channel original movie plotline -” Bellamy snorts. “ - but after dad died, I just... I guess I felt like I was betraying him, by wanting to keep writing. Like I shouldn’t have been able to even pick up a guitar, ‘cause all of it was so entrenched in my memories of him. Mom couldn’t even listen to any of the artists he worked with, afterwards, even the stuff he didn’t produce, and I always felt so guilty for not feeling that way. It ruined my life in a lot of other ways, but it never ruined that, and I always thought maybe it should’ve.”

Bellamy’s quiet, jaw working like he’s chewing on something he doesn’t think he should say.

“What?” she says, and he looks at her, surprised, like he thought he was being subtle. “You obviously have something to add, so. What is it?”

“It’s just,” he says. “I understand why you felt that way, but - it’s bullshit. Total bullshit. People get it in their heads that death is supposed to completely destroy them, like they’re not allowed to keep living or ever be happy again. That’s - okay, I’m just running with the Disney Channel cliché thing - that’s not what your dad would want. You’re not honouring his memory by forcing yourself to give up something you love. You’re actually sort of tarnishing it.”

Clarke raises an eyebrow.

“Shit,” Bellamy says, eyes widening.

“No,” Clarke says. “I get what you’re saying. You’re probably right, honestly. It was just easier, honestly. It hurt to give up music, but it made my life a lot simpler. I didn’t have to worry about disappointing my mom more than I already had, and I could just do something a bit quieter, a bit more stable.”

“So, your way of avoiding music was to become a music journalist,” Bellamy says.

Clarke pauses. “I guess it was kind of a lateral move.”

Bellamy grins.

“So, okay,” she says, “can I ask you something now?”

“Yeah, shoot.”

“What happened to make you hate journalists?”

He stiffens, then straightens, and she wonders if she’s crossed a line again, if she’s just unwittingly torn up the tenuous ground of their working relationship in seven words, but he doesn’t get up to leave, doesn’t start shouting, just sort of sits, thinking, considering.

“It’s,” he says, and sighs. “Okay. You know my sister?”

“Of course,” Clarke says. “Octavia.”

“Yeah,” he says, and doesn’t say anything else, looks to be warring with his words again.

“How’d she end up with that name?” Clarke asks, trying to bring him back to surface, ease the worry lines off his forehead.

“I named her.”

“Wow,” Clarke says. “You would’ve been, like, six?”

“Five,” Bellamy says.

“So, the Roman theme started early,” she says.

He smiles a little, and Clarke relaxes, infinitesimally. “Yeah. I was a bit of a nerd.”

“That’s a bold use of the past tense,” Clarke says, and he makes a face at her. “So - you wouldn’t have really had many run-ins with press until _Caligula_ , right?”

His face goes blank and hard again. “Yeah.”

“So - do you want to tell me what happened, after that?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” he asks. It doesn’t sound harsh, exactly. It’s more - resigned. “I’m sure you read the headlines.”

She did, in fact. She read them at the time, and she re-read them in preparation for the tour, angry photos of Bellamy, face hard and cold and gaunt, with allegations of drug use and violence splashed across the page. She remembers very clearly, though, that there were never proper sources - always just quotes from ‘a friend of the family’s’, which is code for complete bullshit, as far as she’s concerned. She remembers her dad telling her to turn off the news when those stories came on, that it was a beat-up. She believed Jake then, and she’s ready to believe Bellamy now.

“Bellamy,” Clarke says, soft, and leans forward. She’s at the bottom of her mat, close enough to touch him. He looks at her. “I’m not here for headlines.”

“And how will you know I’m not lying?” he asks after a pause.

She shrugs. “I won’t. I’ll just have to trust you.”

Quiet hangs between them for a long moment.

“Octavia,” he says, “she’s actually my half-sister. Not that it matters, she’s still - she’s just my sister. But biologically, we have different dads.”

Clarke nods. She can see that - Octavia is lighter, her nose is less rounded and sharper, smaller than his.

“I never really knew my dad, but O’s dad stuck around for a couple years once she was born,” Bellamy says. “He - it was bad. He hit mom, sometimes, and he gave me shit, didn’t like that I was around. I guess I was a reminder, that mom had been with other people. Anyway, he left, eventually, but before he did, he got mom into smack. I tried to get her into rehab, but she never stayed long enough, and then one day I came home, and-”

He stops. His hands are clenched into fists, resting on the table, and without really thinking about it, Clarke reaches out to rest her palm over them. She knows this part of the story, anyway. It’s one of the only bits she knows for sure.

“Custody went to Octavia’s dad, automatically,” Bellamy says, and Clarke flinches, even though she knows how the story ends, knows Bellamy saved her. “I fought it, and I won, eventually, but. It took longer than it should’ve.”

“Because of the bullshit in the news,” Clarke says.

“Made me look unfit to be a guardian,” Bellamy says. “After that, I didn’t even know if I could go back to music, but - I just love it, y’know, it’s like a part of me. So, when O was old enough that I could start touring again, I signed with TonDC.”

“And stopped doing interviews,” Clarke supplies.

“Yeah.”

Clarke nods, toys with a loose thread on her shirt. Her other hand is still over Bellamy’s, warm and firm. It’s just there’s this - _thing_ in her stomach, now, this hot, tight ball of anger at the thought of Bellamy, barely twenty-one, having to fight against worldwide lies and scandals to save his sister from abuse, to put his career and his well being on hold because nobody else would step up, because the world took so much from him, like it knew he was too good a person to just abandon things. And he could’ve, is the thing. He could have organised for Octavia to go into foster care. It’s probably what his management were recommending, now that Clarke thinks about it, which explains why he switched labels; TonDC have a better reputation for actually caring and investing in their artists as opposed to just exploiting them until there’s nothing left to consume.

It hits her then, not for the first time, how barbaric this industry can be, this industry she grew up in, that she feels so connected to and yet so alienated by. She thinks maybe, for all their difference, for all Bellamy went through that she can never begin to understand, there’s a lot of symmetry between them, but she doesn’t know how to phrase it without seeming presumptuous.

“I always hated when people told me they were sorry about my dad,” she says. “So I’m not going to tell you I’m sorry. But - I just need you to know, uh.” She swallows. She can feel the tension in him, even just through the pulse of his hand, the veins standing to attention beneath the pads of her fingertips. “You didn’t deserve that. Nobody does, really, so. But. The universe piled so much shit on you, and you could’ve left, you had every opportunity, and you didn’t. I don’t know that I could’ve done what you did.”

He shrugs, but there’s a squirm underneath it; he’s clearly uncomfortable. She takes her hand away.

“And nobody _knows_ ,” she says, mostly to herself. “Why doesn’t anybody know?”

“It would’ve hurt my case even more,” he says, “if I’d done some big sob story piece for the tabloids. And I didn’t want to force O into the spotlight if she didn’t want to be there.”

“But everyone still thinks that -” Clarke says, and doesn’t finish.

“I’m not gonna say that doesn’t bother me,” Bellamy says after a pause, “because it does. Just because it’s not true, y’know? But I’ll make it worse, if I talk about it now. The people I care about know, and that’s enough.”

Clarke fidgets, still angry but hyper aware that he might internalise it if she acts irritable, might think she’s disappointed in him, for whatever stupid reason he may concoct, rather than at the stupid fucking people responsible for assassinating his character and nearly ruining his life.

“I know you want final say on everything that ends up in the book,” she says, and he tenses again. “And you have it, of course. But I really think we should include this.”

Bellamy grimaces.

“I’m serious,” she says. “I won’t turn it into a fluff piece, and I’m not going to go easy on you, okay, you’re still a dick. But this is your life, Bellamy. It’s part of you, and it’s part of your music. I don’t need to go into detail, and I won’t go into the stuff about Octavia’s dad, if she doesn’t want that in there.”

“I don’t need anyone feeling sorry for me,” he says.

“That’s not what this is about,” Clarke says. “It’s about exposing the way the media fabricates things, how the shittiest parts of this industry operate, and holding them accountable.”

“What happened to this being a fluff piece?” Bellamy asks, mildly amused, now.

“Fuck that,” Clarke says, waving a hand. “That was my plan before, when nobody was telling me shit.” Bellamy winces guiltily. “This could be good. We could make it good.” She realises she’s gripping the edge of the table, leaning forward, and straightens, tries to seem a little less manic about the whole thing. “If you want. I won’t write anything you’re not okay with, really. But I think you should consider it.”

“Okay,” Bellamy says, and she balks a little - she wasn’t expecting him to agree immediately - but then, “since we’re doing this sobstory trade-off thing, can I just ask. What’s _Wounded Deer_ about?”

Clarke blinks. It’s a pretty blatant attempt at a subject change, and it disappoints her, a little. She was actually getting excited about writing this book, for the first time since - well, ever.

“Uh,” she says, then figures she may as well answer, try to preserve the growing sense of camaraderie honesty between them. “It was about dad. That’s what the whole EP ended up being, really.”

“Even though you released it before he died,” Bellamy says.

“I didn’t,” she says. “It was after. About two months after. It was only half-finished, and I just sort of threw myself into it after he died.”

“So you didn’t take it down because of him, then,” Bellamy says, forehead screwed up in concentration. It strikes her that he really cares about this, for whatever reason, and she doesn’t really know how to feel about that.

“No,” she says. “I put it up because of him, actually. But then… you know when you have that realisation that, like, you’ve been screaming into the void of the internet about your feelings, but it’s not really a void, it’s a tangible thing that can be traced back to you, and other people can find it and poach it and pick it apart?”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding in agreement like he actually understands what she’s saying, like she didn’t just ramble nonsensically at him. She believes him, is the thing, believes that he gets her.

“Yeah, well,” she says, “that happened. I left it up for a couple years, and I just thought it’d keep collecting dust, y’know, but I guess someone linked it to dad, and apparently it got put on Reddit, which. That’s just pure nightmare fuel.” Bellamy snorts. “Anyway, some music blogger found it, and.” Clarke shifts. “He sort of accused me of, like, trying to profit off my dad’s death, or make a spectacle of it. It was literally up for free, but. I don’t know. Anyway, it made me feel weird, so I took it down.”

“Sorry, I just have to - that’s also bullshit,” Bellamy says. “Some asshole blogger doesn’t get to -”

“I know that, now,” Clarke says, smiling a little. At least she’s not the only one getting worked up about journalistic injustice today. “But I was 17, y’know? It wasn’t difficult to make me feel insecure about stuff.”

“Did you think that’s how we’d react, if we heard it?” Bellamy asks, face twisted like the thought of it physically pains him.

She shakes her head. “No. I figure you guys would get it more than anyone, really. It’s more that you do it for a living, y’know, and, not that you need an ego boost, but - you’re really, really good at it. You’ve had five albums, plus an EP, to distill your sound, and mature, and grow as an artist. I was 15, I didn’t know what I was doing, and it shows.”

“That’s not how it sounded it to me,” Bellamy says.

“That was one song,” Clarke counters.

He eyes her, and tugs at the collar of his shirt a little, rumpling it. It’s a habit of his, she’s noticed, like the way he shakes his hair out of his eyes when he plays onstage, or how he drinks his coffee in small, careful sips to begin with, never patient enough to wait until it’s cooled down a little.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna suggest something. You don’t have to say yes, but - I figure, this whole trading stories thing is working pretty well, right?” Clarke nods, but it’s careful, considered. He could be going any number of places with this, and she’s wary of all of them. “So. How about you can put in the stuff about me and O, as long as she’s okay with it, and - I get to listen to the EP once, all the way through?”

Clarke looks away.

She knows she’s being irrational, not wanting to let him listen. It’s not even about the trade-off of the book, really; he’s entrusted her with his story, is the thing. It’s not about what the book might do, what it might mean for people - it’s about the fact that he trusted her to believe him, not to judge him when he told her the truth. She can do the same, right? She can trust that he won’t take it lightly, that he understands what the songs mean to her, what the EP represents. There’s still that fear, though, rattling away inside, obsessing over what he might say, what he might _think_ -

“Deal,” she says, before she can start spiralling. She’s not going to overthink this. That’s what her therapist in LA was always telling her, to jump in, to be vulnerable and not worry about how it makes her look, not get caught up in all the risks like she always does.

Bellamy blinks, and she realises he really was not expecting her to say yes, but then his mouth splits into a grin, wide and toothy and heart-stopping, and _that_. That makes it worth the risk.


	8. update

**THIS IS JUST AN AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

My aunt passed away. That's why I've been gone. So I would appreciate if the messages and comments demanding an update and calling me "mean" for taking a break for a story that I write VOLUNTARILY, for FREE, would stop for the moment. I will update this story eventually, but I have other priorities at the moment. For those of you who've been patient, I appreciate it. I promise I'm not abandoning this fic or my account.


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